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IEP JSLTOK:

A HISTORY OF MARSHALLESE LITERATURE

MASTER’S PORTFOLIO 2014

by

Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner

Thesis Committee:

Julianne Walsh, Chairperson David Hanlon

Alice Te Punga Somerville

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Acknowledgements

I am grateful and blessed by so many wonderful people in my life, who have

influenced this portfolio and guided me through the entire research process.

This portfolio would not have happened without the help of my committee members

– Julianne Walsh, David Hanlon, and Alice Te Punga Somerville. My committee members

were each very supportive of what I chose to study from the beginning, and they were

also especially patient towards the end, when I was struggling to finish my final draft while

taking care of my newborn baby girl. They were flexible, caring, and knew how to push

me intellectually, beyond my own insecurities and through the fog of doubt and

preconceived notions of what a portfolio or a work of scholarship should look like.

David was kind and thoughtful, and used his background as a historian to enrich

and fine tune my drafts, devoting his precious time to small, and yet very important and

necessary details. His final feedback was thorough, comprehensive, and greatly

appreciated. If I hadn’t taken Alice’s class on Pacific Literary Criticism, I might never have

finally found the last big piece to my puzzle. She opened up my eyes to the limitless

possibility of what indigenous scholarship could look like, and knew how to cut through

my self-inflicted criticism that usually served only as an annoying barrier to the flow of

research. I always left our conversations inspired, fulfilled, and excited to continue my

work. Julie was with me every step of the way, guiding me from the beginning, those initial

sparks of ideas, to the less than glamourous parts of research – helping me fill out paper

work, listening intently as I theorized and attempted to figure out life alongside research.

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She also provided numerous lunches, was always generous with her attention and

advice, and was also so understanding of my constraints while being patient during the

many times that I stumbled or stalled.

This portfolio would also not have happened without the input and wisdom of my

elders. Willie Mwekto, Alfred Capelle, Lobwij Lorak, Nickson David, Carmen Bigler,

Korent Joel, and Nidel Lorak are all highly respected individuals within my community.

Each of them took time out of their busy schedules to sit, talk story, and patiently listen

and answer all of my questions. They opened up to me about their lives and they trusted

me with their knowledge and their stories. It is this trust and faith that they had in me that

was the most humbling gift they could have given me. Their stories and their knowledge

are all captured on film, and I hope that I can one day begin to scratch the surface and

really understand the lessons they attempted to teach me.

While I was in the Marshall Islands conducting research, certain individuals were

particularly helpful throughout the research process. They guided me, letting me bounce

ideas and opinions off of them, and pointing me the right direction when I was lost. Mary

Silk, a faculty member at the College of the Marshall Islands, and Josepha Maddison at

the Historic Preservation Office were particularly helpful. They share my passion for

Marshallese bwebwenato and research into Marshallese culture. It was also their hope in

the future of Marshallese culture that helped me the most. While most elders lamented

the fact that our knowledge is dying as more and more elders pass away, Mary was one

of the few who disagreed and believed in the knowledge we have now, and believed in

the people who are attempting to do what they can to preserve and save that knowledge.

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Josepha shared with me stories of her childhood that was heartwarming and reminded

me of the love and magic that comes from experiencing the past through our

grandparents.

Wilbert Alik, another Marshallese faculty at the College, was also incredibly helpful.

Wilbert is doing amazing things with his students and with Marshallese culture and

orthography, and we had numerous helpful and interesting discussions while I was on the

hunt for stories. He was also able to give me countless resources of roro, or chanting,

and bwebwenato, as well as recordings he had meticulously kept of Marshallese classes

that had been previously taught by Marshallese experts such as Willie Mwekto. I see

Wilbert as the next generation of Marshallese research and literature, and I am excited

for that future.

My mother and father continue to be my most important guides and my greatest

supporters. The lives they’ve led and the sacrifices they’ve made throughout my

childhood and even now are the reason I am where I am today. I am nothing without them

– they taught me to appreciate the world around me, to give back to my community and

to use the privilege I’ve been given to make a change for the better. They’ve taught me

to be proud of where I come from, and to be proud of my family and ancestry. Besides

giving me the principals I need to succeed, the lives they lead continues to inspire me –

their tireless work ethic, their selfless commitment to their families, their appreciation for

social justice and community service – I can only hope that I am one day half as

successful and giving as they are. They have always given me the direction and the push

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I need to keep moving forward, and have given me whatever support I needed when I

asked. I am grateful to have two such loving, brilliant parents in my life.

My cousins Tamera and Hetine, two of my best friends, were great sounding

boards for my ideas, and always kept me grounded with their honest responses. They

provided me with another lens to Marshallese culture and life, a young and fresh lens that

kept my work immediate and real. They also made life so much better, with all our laughs,

our stories, our victories. They kept my darkest days at bay, brought me food while

studying late, listened patiently to my whining, and kept me motivated throughout my work

and my research. I look up to them for the work they do, for the ways in which they give

to our family, and do my best to try and emulate them.

My partner Mak has been an amazing support, especially during the last few

months when things got really crazy. From being patient through all my hormonal

episodes of pregnancy, to staying up late with our newborn while I wrote and edited this

thesis, to driving me to my classes, staying with crying baby while I defended my thesis,

to fixing me many meals all while working a full time job, paying bills, and supporting our

family. He has also eased my tension so many times by making me laugh, watching

movies, going on walks, massaging me, and reminding me that life is hard, but it doesn’t

mean we should quit. He has believed in me, and has seen a reservoir of strength in me

that I myself didn’t know existed. He has done everything a partner could ever do, and

more.

My Uncle Clyde, Aunty Herethy, my brother Ryan, and my brother-in-law Keola

provided a comfortable home away from home during my first year here, when everything

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was still new and I was still getting acclimated to my new surroundings. They cooked

many delicious meals for me, gave me rides when I needed it, listened and talked story,

and provided me with the relaxing, loving family atmosphere I missed and needed. We

celebrated many birthdays, Christmases, Mother’s Days, and Father’s Days together and

each one brought me back to the realization that at the end of the day, my family is what

makes life so rich and wonderful.

I am lucky to be surrounded by an amazing community of writers, artists, activists,

and scholars who have all been so loving and kind, and who have welcomed me into their

homes and their families without any hesitation, or judgment. It feels like a golden age of

Pacific writing, art, and research – a time when inspiration erupts and sprouts between

conversations over tea, at protests, in art galleries, and at literary readings. These are

people doing amazing work for our Pacific community, who are genuinely interested and

excited by my work, and I am so grateful to be a part of their lives. Two of them especially

– Craig Santos-Perez and Lyz Soto, might have as well been members of my committee

because of the amount of time they devoted to helping me develop my project, especially

the creative, poetic component. They have served as amazing mentors, helping me

shape and carve my stories, and pushing me even beyond the page.

And last but not least, I want to thank my daughter, Matafele Peinam Kathy

Makerusa, just for existing. For living and breathing and fighting to be a part of this world,

this life. She became my muse – I thought of her reading my work, reading my poetry. I

wanted her to have a history that she can eventually pass down to her children, and so

on. I want a world for them where their voices are heard, where their stories are important.

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Where the stories reflected the truth and beauty of their lives, and the lives of their

ancestors who came before them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 2 TABLE OF CONTENTS 7 LIST OF FIGURES 9 INTRODUCTION 10 Why Marshallese Literature? 12 Marshallese versus(?) Micronesian 15 Writing a Thesis versus Writing a Portfolio 19 An Indigenous Marshallese Methodology 20 CHAPTER 1 Reading the Waves: Stickcharts and Visual Literacy 27

Grasping for Orality: An Introduction to Basic Terminology 36 Reading Orality: Diving into a Sea of Anthropology 40 CHAPTER 2 Jitdah Kapeel: Interviews with Elders 55 Willie Mwekto 58 Alfred Capelle 62 Lobwij Lorak 66 Nickson David 70

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Carmen Bigler 72 Korent Joel 75 Nidel Lorak 81 Reflections on Preservation 83 CHAPTER 3 Compasses and Writing in the Sand: European Contact 86 Holy Printing Presses: Publishing the Word of God 89 Marshallese Written Literature: Prolific Protests and Preservation 96 CHAPTER 4 Iep Jsltok: Continuing the Legacy 115 Basket 120 Liktagur 122

Lidepdepju 124 Dr. Rife 125

Juon Wot Emon 126

Hooked 128 The letter B is for 131 Fishbone Hair 132 Flying to Makiki Street 135

On the Couch with Bubu Neien 137 My Rosy Cousin 140 Spoken Marshallese Lesson Nine: A Conversation Drill 141 How to Interview a Marshallese Roro Expert 142

The Captain 143

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Just a Rock 145 Campaigning in Aur 146 Saltwater Lavender 149

BIBILIOGRAPHY 151

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1: Wapepe stickchart 24

Figure 2: Marshallese tattooing motifs 29

Figure 3: Head tattoo of Irooj Laninat of Mile 30

Figure 4: Shoulder tattoo of Lerooj Nen 30

Figure 5: Marshallese mat 31

Figure 6: Willie Mwekto 57

Figure 7: Alfred Capelle 61

Figure 8: Lobwij Lorak 65

Figure 9: Nickson David 68

Figure 10: Carmen Bigler 71

Figure 11: Korent Joel 74

Figure 12: Rebbleib stickchart 77

Figure 13: Medo stickchart 78

Figure 14: Wappepe Stickchart 78

Figure 15: Nidel Lorak 80

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Introduction

The term “Iep Jsltok” is a Marshallese proverb meaning “a basket whose opening

is facing the speaker.” When a girl is born we say, “Jerammon bwe juon fe iep jsltok.”

Daughters are seen as baskets full of offering because Marshallese society is a

matrilineal society - one in which land and lineage is traced through our mother. I feel this

is a proper metaphor for this portfolio, as I am a Marshallese daughter offering my own

basket full of writing, history, and poetry. A lineage of Marshallese literature.

The journey for this thesis first began as a means of finding a connection to my

home – the Marshall Islands. I was born in my country, but moved to Hawai’i at six years

old and lived here for sixteen years before moving to California to pursue a Bachelor’s in

Creative Writing and then finally returning to my islands once again, eighteen years after

I had left. Going home was a rude awakening – I had no idea how limited my knowledge

was of Marshallese culture. Still, I loved learning our history in the bits and pieces I was

able to pick up from conversations with my parents, my family, my friends, and my co-

workers. My motivation for returning to Hawai’i after two years to get my Master’s was

mostly practical – I knew that if I was to attain a degree, I would be able to teach courses

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at College of the Marshall Islands, which was a higher position than my current job as a

Communications Officer. I also believed that by enrolling in the Center for Pacific Islands

Studies, I might be able to study the two topics I was very passionate about: my culture,

and spoken word.

I initially chose to focus on Marshallese oral traditions because of my passion for

my culture and spoken word. I began writing and performing for the stage during my

senior year of high school, and continued to perform poetry during my college years. I

thought that by studying Marshallese oral traditions, I would be able to get the best of

both worlds. I also felt that I might be able to not only deepen my connection to my culture

and history, but I also to understand the connection between the written and the oral.

After my two years in this program, I see now that this connection does exist, and that

there does not need to be a division between the two mediums of expression.

This portfolio has come a long way since I first began to investigate our oral

traditions. It now considers not only oral traditions, but our entire history of literature, a

literature that has always existed but has never been examined. It seeks to reframe how

we look at that literature, and how we examine writing and text. What happens when we

open up the definition of literature, writing, and text, to include not only the written work,

but to also oral traditions, weaving, tattoos, and stickcharts? What you get is an

indigenous history of Marshallese literature that privileges Marshallese voices and the

different ways in which we have expressed ourselves. This portfolio combines archival

studies, interviews with my elders and literary criticism, as well as my own new poems. It

is my hope that by giving space to these voices, and reframing the way we look at

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Marshallese literature, that this might be another step towards understanding our history

and ourselves in a different light.

Why Marshallese Literature?

The study of Marshallese literature has so far not been embarked on. Oral

traditions, specifically bwebwenato or storytelling, nuclear testing, militarism and

colonialism, the social hierarchy of chiefs, lineage, education, climate change – these

have been the topics of focus for studies on the Marshall Islands and the Marshallese.

Marshallese literature has so far been unexamined. This may have occurred for a number

of reasons. Perhaps people believe that 1) there is no Marshallese literature, or not

enough to study or 2) it is not a subject “worthy” or “necessary” to study. At the beginning

of my research, I was one of those people who believed both of these untruths.

When I began this research, I had to convince myself that Marshallese literature is

a subject worthy of study. Although I myself am a writer, and I have a passion for literature

and storytelling, I had come to believe that this passion was not applicable or useful to

other Marshallese people. I had come to believe the common rhetoric that studies which

have no “practical” use, ie studies that do not contribute to hot topics such as climate

change or nuclear compensation, or focus on social or historical problems, are merely

fluff, and will have no tangible impact on Marshallese lives. I had come to believe that

literature and writing simply does not matter. However, I now believe that the study of

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Marshallese literature holds the possibility of contribution to the survival of Marshallese

culture and values in a world dominated by the presence of media and literature that

privilege western principles and concepts which have a damaging effect on how we view

ourselves.

My mother, Hilda Heine, wrote about this damaging effect in her dissertation

"Tuwaak Bwe Elimaajnono" Perspectives and Voices: A Multiple Case Study of

Successful Marshallese Immigrant High School Students in the United States. She wrote,

“After years of colonization, many Marshallese see themselves as they are seen by

Westerners - as, ‘lazy, impoverished and undisciplined’ (Heine 2004, 19).’” When

Marshallese continue to be bombarded by this perspective, that we are nothing but lazy

and undisciplined, that we are merely problems that need to be fixed - then we are bound

to begin to believe that perspective, to doubt ourselves and then to drown in a fatalism

that confines us as a people. Epeli Hau’ofa, the famous Tongan scholar and writer,

reinforces this perspective, actually drawing on Marshallese history as an example in his

essay Our Sea of Islands:

Belittlement in whatever guise, if internalized for long and transmitted across generations, may lead to moral paralysis, to apathy, and to the kind of fatalism that we can see among our fellow human beings who have been herded and confined to reservations or internment camps. People in some of our islands are in danger of being confined to mental reservations, if not already to physical ones. I am thinking here of people in the Marshall Islands, who have been victims of atomic and missile tests by the United States. (Hau’ofa 1999, 31)

When I first read this section, it was startling to recognize my country in a text,

referencing our experience as an example of how many Pacific Islanders have been

exploited as a people. It was also a bit of a slap in the face to have our traumatizing history

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held up as a cautionary tale. Still, Hau’ofa’s assertion is not wrong. Marshallese have lost

our islands, our land, due to a nuclear race, and to militarization – forces to which we

never belonged to and which we have no part of. We have been confined and herded to

smaller islands – a metaphor of the smaller mentality we have also adopted. A mentality

that tells us that we are vulnerable, we are victims.

However, I believe that, just as Hau’ofa asserts later in his essay, if we were to

study the stories, chants, and visual texts which we have produced as a people before

European contact and colonization, and the essays and writing that we produced after,

what emerges are multiple perspectives that are bigger than the smallness so many of us

have come to believe in. I chose to focus my portfolio on Marshallese voices as a way of

reframing how we see ourselves, and to present a bigger picture. By focusing on giving

space to these voices – voices which have existed all along – it is my hope that it is one

step towards furthering the belief that we are not victims of a history forced upon us. That

instead we are agents of change, and that we continue to be agents of change, even in

a world that tells us otherwise.

I also believe that the study of Marshallese literature contributes to larger

conversations currently happening in the Pacific. Teresia Teaiwa’s work, particularly her

essay, “What Remains to be Seen: Reclaiming the Roots of Pacific Literature” (2010) was

especially influential on this portfolio, where she considers the different forms of visual

texts which existed alongside oral traditions, long before the European standard of writing

entered our cultures. Penny Van Toorn’s book Writing Never Arrives Naked: Early

Aboriginal Cultures of Writing in Australia (2006) focuses on a history of Aboriginal writing,

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starting with evidence of alphabet letters carved into clubs. Much of Alice Te Punga

Somerville’s work focuses on the history of Maori literature, such as “Maori Cowboys,

Maori Indians” (2010) which unpacks how Maori writers such as Witi Ihimaera considers

Maori indigenous identity through short stories (2010). David Hanlon’s book Upon a Stone

Alter: A History of the Island of Pohnpei to 1890 (1988) uses oral traditions, archival

research, anthropology, and archaeology to consider the history of Pohnpei, breaking

through the conventions of traditional disciplinary boundaries to present a history that

privileges indigenous voices. These scholars push the boundaries of what Pacific studies

looks like, using literature, oral traditions, and indigenous voices to reexamine Pacific

identity and history. Besides contributing to conversations on Pacific studies and history,

I hope that this portfolio will also act as a blueprint to encourage more Pacific Islander

students to use their culture in outside contexts, in a similar way in which I used

Marshallese cultural protocols to study literature.

Marshallese versus(?) Micronesian

During a seminar in Pacific Island Literary Criticism, my classmates and I were

asked to write a Pacific author we had read recently on the chalkboard. What emerged

were names such as Albert Wendt, Caroline Sinavaiana-Gabbard, Patricia Grace, Epeli

Hau’ofa, Selina Tusitala Marsh, Teresia Teaiwa, and Haunani Kay-Trask amongst others.

We were then asked to analyze this list – where did these writers come from? As a class

we agreed that nearly all of these writers originated or claimed heritage in the region

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known as the South Pacific, specifically Polynesia, while more than a few were also from

the Melanesian region. But what about writers from the Micronesian region? Teresia

Teaiwa was the only one on the board, whose ancestry includes both Kiribati and African.

Where were the other Micronesian writers? When our professor, Alice Te Punga

Somerville, pressed us, a few other names emerged: Craig Santos-Perez from Guahan,

Emehliter Kihleng from Pohnpei and me, Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner – a new and, unlike the other

three, still unpublished writer from the Marshall Islands. It felt a little lonely to have only

these four names on the board under “Micronesia,” each of us representing our respective

islands - as if one could point to us and say “There – there is Pohnpei. Over there is

Guahan. Farther over is Kiribati. And over there, sitting in a seat in a Kuykendall

classroom in the University of Hawai’i, is the Marshall Islands.”

Obviously, this cannot be true. We are not the only writers in our entire region, not

even in our respective countries. The problem is that the writers from our region have not

been widely read by outsiders and, as a result, remain unknown by the rest of the Pacific

literary community. Another contribution to the problem is access and distribution of this

writing. Nevertheless, the dominant perspective is that Micronesian writers simply do not

existent. Nicholas J. Goetzfridt comments on this silence in his essay “Indigenous

Literature: Micronesia,” (2000) when he writes that “the ‘development’ of writing, which

has its basis in 19th century efforts to Christianize islanders, and in the educational

systems of four colonial powers since the 1600s, has not produced a collection of

published Micronesian literature” (Goetzfridt 2000, 524-25).

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This portfolio challenges this notion, first by challenging the concept of Micronesian

literature itself. Micronesia was a term first created by French explorer and naval officer

Jules Dumont d’Urville, who chose the term because of the many “little” or “micro” islands

in the region. It was not a term chosen by the people – rather it was forced upon us and

has become our signifier hundreds of years later. Micronesia is incredibly diverse – it

includes over 2000 islands, with at least sixteen different languages. Kihleng was the first

author to really consider and shed light on this in her piece “The Micronesian Question”

which was published on the Tinfish Press website in 2013:

MICRONESIAN lacks concrete definition An inadequate Insufficient Identity Misplaced Bestowed wrongly Upon a large and diverse Pacific Island population Who are not under one flag Who do not speak one tongue Who do not eat the same food And most of all who Do not want to be recognized as one In this excerpt, Kihleng captures the truth behind the resentment so many

Micronesians have about being lumped all together into one category. This is why

studying a history of writing for a region this diverse is bound to have problems with

oversimplification and generalizations that can sustain limited perspectives of us as a

people. Focusing on one culture and history out of Micronesia is vital now more than ever,

with more and more people from the Micronesian region immigrating to Hawai’i and other

states in America, and having to deal with others’ and our own limited perspectives of us

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as a people. When many of us first came to Hawai’i, we were bombarded with ignorant

questions and ideas which grouped us together as one. I am often asked if I am

Micronesian, but I am never asked what type of Micronesian. And when I say

“Marshallese” only a few have known what this means, or have recognized that there is

a difference between “Marshallese,” “Chuukese” or “Pohnpeian.” Many of us have given

up explaining that there are different cultures at all, exhausted by the constant retelling of

the different histories and cultures, and frustrated by the blank stares, and instead simply

say we are “Micronesian” when asked where we come from. Whereas many Polynesians

such as Hawaiians, Samoans, and Maori have the luxury of specific recognition, the

different peoples of Micronesia unfortunately remain unknown, or unknown beyond the

general group or category and have come to be known as only one culture, one people -

especially in Hawai’i.

On the other hand, I am not completely advocating against using the term –

claiming this connection can be useful as a tool for coming together for a common cause,

such as challenging the recent Basic Health Hawai’i state health insurance plan for COFA

(Compact of Free Association) people that threatens the health care of all citizens of

Micronesian nations living in Hawai’i. However, the purpose of this portfolio is not to give

voice to all Micronesians, but rather a specific part of Micronesia, thereby breaking the

myth that we are all the same people across the board – that we are in fact, an incredibly

diverse community. By focusing on one country, and one culture, in this case the Marshall

Islands, we are able to give space for multiple voices that have so far gone unrecognized

in Hawai’i, and in the scholarship of Pacific studies. This portfolio does not seek to claim

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that the voices of the Marshallese matter more than those of other Micronesians. Rather,

it seeks to contribute to the existing scholarship of Micronesia, and to encourage further

studies in other Micronesian cultures. In this case, it is not Marshallese versus

Micronesian. It is not a battle, or a competition. Rather, it is one piece of a larger picture.

Writing a Thesis versus Writing a Portfolio

At the beginning of my program I had a very specific goal in mind. I wanted to learn

more about our oral traditions and I also wanted to produce a new set of poetry in

response to those traditions – my idea being that this new crop of poems would eventually

contribute to my first manuscript of poetry. However, as I took more classes, and learned

more about what was at stake in scholarly and academic work – especially when I learned

about the responsibility of the researcher to the community he or she is studying – a seed

of self-doubt began to grow in my mind. Just who would be benefiting from a creative

portfolio of poetry? The answer (or so I thought at the time) is that only I would be

benefiting. If the audience for poetry is extremely limited in United States, that audience

is even more limited in the Marshall Islands. How would this help other Marshallese write?

Who would even read this thesis? Would this be an extremely self-serving project? Do I

need to expand my academic pursuits to something more scholarly – more credible? In

the end, poetry just seemed like the “easy” and the “fun” route.

However, with the guidance of my committee, I was forced to interrogate the

questions themselves. What qualifies as “scholarly”? How is poetry any less “credible”

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than the academic thesis? Poetry is another form of expression – and at times a form of

expression that could be argued to be easier to understand than a 50 page academic

thesis. And how can one say that poetry is “easy” when I personally can say that I have

spent the same amount of hours on huge papers that I would on a few lines of poetry?

To write, and to write well, to connect with a reader – this requires dedication, skill, and

constant vigilance. It requires an unyielding pursuit of honesty.

It also struck me that, as a writer studying my genealogy of writers, I have a

responsibility to continue this tradition as well. I have always seen writing as a form of

healing – why not continue that form of healing by writing about the wounds which have

been ignored, the voices which have been silenced? Why not tell the new stories, not just

the traditional stories? We Marshallese are not static – our culture is constantly changing

and growing as we change and grow as well, and so our stories have reflected those

stories. Why not demonstrate these changes in a new art form – one which engages with

multiple traditions? In the end, I chose the portfolio – not only because this option engaged

my passion, but also because I felt the yearning to continue the tradition of Marshallese

expression.

An Indigenous Marshallese Methodology

This portfolio seeks to study an important facet of Marshallese culture and society.

As such, it only makes sense that the methodology for this portfolio be based on

Marshallese culture as well. I am by no means, a Marshallese cultural expert. However,

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my family has imparted certain values and principals upon me that are important to the

structure of our society and which are distinctly Marshallese. The three Marshallese

values and concepts which guided my steps throughout my research 1) going through

proper channels, 2) jitdah kapeel, and 3) maan peio or kabwojrak, or reciprocity. Also

influencing this methodology are concepts introduced by Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s book

Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples as well as Monica

Labriola’s thesis Iien Ippan Doon: Celebrating Survival in an ‘Atypical Marshallese

Community (2006). Smith writes that the indigenous methodology approaches “cultural

protocols, values and behaviors as an integral part of methodology” (Smith 1999, 15).

Going through the proper channels was the first crucial step of my research. In the

past, before starting any sort of task or project, one needed to go through the proper

channels to gain approval – usually this meant gaining the approval of the Irooj, the Chiefs

before taking any further steps. Meeting with the Irooj, however, is usually a delicate

process, one which I do not have any experience with and am not entirely accustomed

to. So before I began this project I needed to find out who I was allowed to speak to, and

whether this project would be acceptable. I consulted first and foremost with my parents.

Both were born and raised in the Marshall Islands, and have an acute awareness of

cultural protocols and history. When I first approached my parents about the topic of my

study, I asked if I would need the approval of the Irooj, before beginning my project. They

informed me that because the subject of this research, orality and literature, was a shared

activity and was not a taboo subject, I could proceed without needing the approval of Irooj.

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Another facet of moving through the proper channels was to meet with the

Republic of the Marshall Islands Historic Preservation Office (RMIHPO), whose purpose,

according to their website (last updated in 2013), is “protecting and preserving the

tangible and intangible cultural resources” of the Marshall Islands. First I met with Deputy

Historic Preservation Officer Josepha Maddison, and then with Chief Cultural

Anthropologist Matt Riding and Chief Archaeologist Michael Terlep, and gave them my

research proposal and discussed the purpose behind my research. They informed me

that the only requirement I had to fulfill before beginning my research was to fill out an

Anthropological Research permit. Once this was signed off by Secretary of Internal Affairs

Daisy Alik-Momotaro, I was ready to move forward.

The second concept was jitdah kapeel. For this section I employed a methodology

which had been previously engaged by LaBriola. She emphasized the Marshallese

concept of jitdah kapeel – which, loosely translated, means learning genealogy and

gaining knowledge from sitting and talking with one’s elders. LaBriola recognized the

importance of this concept because of the value it places on relationships.

In the Marshallese tradition, knowledge stems from an intricate understanding of these connections and relationships — of the spaces that connect people in complex and often overlapping genealogies and social hierarchies. The Marshallese expression jitdah kapeel suggests that wisdom is assured to those who study and understand these genealogies. (LaBriola 2006, 12)

For this portfolio, I attempted to understand the genealogy of expression through

the practice of jitdah kapeel with elders who had been identified by other community

members as Marshallese oral experts. This was necessary, not only because much of

the information on Marshallese oral traditions that they have knowledge about has not

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been documented, but also because there is a need to privilege their voices as living

archives.

Besides sitting and talking with my elders, jitdah kapeel was employed in another

way: I studied the writing of researchers who came before me. This was achieved through

a preliminary overview of the texts available. I began with the recently published text Etto

gan Raan Kein: A Marshall Islands History (2003), published by Julie Walsh and my

mother, which gave me a detailed overview of the history of the Marshall Islands. It

allowed me to see the timeline of Marshallese history that I had only a vague idea of

before I began my research. It gave me the chance to later understand how certain events

influenced the writing and the chanting of Marshallese. Because of my limited experience

in research on Marshallese history, I also needed to understand what other researchers

had accomplished before me – who they interacted with and what ideas and concepts

they emphasized or privileged, and what areas had been left blank. Here I looked into

texts such as Phillip McArthur’s dissertation The Social Life of Narrative: Marshall Islands

(1995), Jack Tobin’s collection Stories from the Marshall Islands (2002), Bwebwenattoon

Etto: A Collection of Marshallese Legends and Traditions (1992) along with

Jabonkonnaan in Majel: Wisdom from the past: A collection of Marshallese Proverbs,

Wise Sayings & Beliefs (2000), from anthropologist Dirk H.R. Spennemann, and A History

of Marshall Islands (1982) by Gerald Knight. These texts provided an overview of

Marshallese orality itself, and also gave clues and ideas as to what gaps there are in the

study of the tradition. Besides these texts, I also brushed up on my Marshallese language

skills by studying and practicing with Spoken Marshallese (1969) from Byron W. Bender,

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and reading texts that were available in Marshallese language (mainly Jeje Ko

Rekwcjarjar also known as the Bible). It is prudent to note here also that the Marshallese

spelling I chose to use for most of this portfolio is guided by the spelling in the Marshallese

English Dictionary (1976).

The third concept which guided my research was maan peim or maan peio, and

kabwojrak. Kabwojrak and maan peio apply to situations or occasions where two people,

or two groups of people meet or get together to discuss or make a decision on something

important. "Kabwojrak" refers to the gifts prepared by the host, in most cases the Irooj, to

give to visitors in return for kindness or honor shown by the visit. The idea is that one

does not go to visit someone empty handed, especially if the host is a traditional leader

because most likely the visitor will be receiving a gift from the Irooj or host. It would be

embarrassing if you do not bring a gift but you left the meeting or visit with one. The

connecting concept between the two terms is the idea of reciprocity. There is a similarity

between the two terms, and yet also a subtle difference. The terms demonstrate how

important and layered the idea of reciprocity is to Marshallese.

To carry out this concept, freshly baked banana bread, a dinner of chopped steak,

a case of chicken for a birthday party, a case of fruit juice, a small monetary amount –

these were a few of the tangible and immediate ways in which I thanked each of my

interviewees for their help and contribution. Besides these acts and gifts, writing is

another means of reciprocity. The creation of new writing is my attempt at contributing to

this genealogy. The poetry written was inspired directly by the research, the process of

research, as well as the different stories I came across while taking this journey. It

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engages with themes, ideas, and elders from my interviews, as well as the texts I have

analyzed. It also tells other stories – most are stories from my family. All are stories which

I feel contribute to the fabric of Marshallese society.

The overall structure of this portfolio might be best explained through the metaphor

of the stickchart. Marshallese stickcharts are based on Marshallese knowledge of

navigation and voyaging which are at least 2000 years old. The stick chart is analogous

to the European map – it can be seen as a map of the Marshall Islands. It is made from

the midribs of coconut fronds bound together by coconut sennit, in what looks to the

outsider like geometrical patters. Cowrie shells are dotted along the sticks indicating,

depending on the model, either wave patterns or locations of islands. Figure 1 shows one

type of stickchart – the wapepe stickchart – which depicts wave patterns.

Figure 1 The wapepe stick chart.

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The stickchart is an appropriate metaphor for my methodology for three reasons.

First, stick charts were made from materials which already existed in the Marshallese

environment – coconut trees and shells. All of the knowledge examined in this portfolio,

the texts which make up a history of Marshallese literature, as well as the elders I

interviewed, come from my environment. In a sense, I am using materials from my

environment to create this portfolio. I am not “discovering” anything new – I am merely

presenting a different way, one way, of looking at this knowledge.

Second, stick charts are three dimensional products. Unlike most European maps,

which are two dimensional and which lay flat on a piece of paper, stick charts are tactile,

bumpy and thicker than paper, yet also lightweight. Similarly, this history of writing is more

than the usual European cannon of literature. It is three dimensional – filled with tactile

forms of expression that go beyond the page – using orality, poetry, weaving, tatttoos,

and even stickcharts.

Third, as previously stated, stickcharts are made up of different pieces of coconut

frond midribs which have been laid across one another in a specific pattern and tied

together to present an overall map of the islands. In a similar sense, I have taken different

pieces – visual texts, archival research on oral traditions, interviews with my elders, the

history behind our introduction to European writing, the essays and texts we produced

after, and the new poems I have written – I am taking all of these seemingly different

elements, laying them across one another, and presenting them in a specific pattern to

show how they are connected. These connections produce a bigger picture - a new map

of our history of writing. And just like the stickchart, there are gaps between these different

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pieces, gaps where texts and voices are missing. However, this portfolio does not attempt

to fill in all of the gaps. It is merely showing one perspective, one map, one history of

Marshallese writing.

CHAPTER 1

Reading the Waves: Stick Charts and Visual Literacy

The scholarship of histories and the history of writing in an Oceanic culture

generally begin with a focus on initial European contact. However, I do not wish to use

this as the genesis of our history of writing. This is my way of attempting to write against

the concept that our history of writing only began with colonial contact. Rather, I wish to

begin this history of Marshallese literature by introducing and examining the many

different ways we used pandanus sticks, coconut fronds and midribs, as well as our own

voices to tell our stories and to preserve and share our knowledge thousands of years

before the introduction of the pencil, the paper, and the written word.

To begin, I would like to focus on evidence of our visual literacy, before delving

into our oral literacy. Teresia Teaiwa introduces this concept in her essay, What Remains

To Be Seen: Reclaiming the Visual Roots of Pacific Literature, where she argues “for a

theory of the polygenesis of Pacific literature” (Teaiwa 2010, 731). She argues against

the perspective that orature is the sole foundation of literature and literary practices.

By continuing to reify the roots of Pacific literature (or even simply assume that they are oral), we continue to mystify writing as a practice and reinforce it as alien…Liberating Pacific literature from a singular and oral genealogical origin

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opens it up to multiple sources of inspiration and diverse forms of engagement. (Teaiwa 2010, 735) Instead of confining Pacific literature to merely oral origins, Teaiwa argues for

evidence of “visual literacy,” evidence of technologies and arts that are similar to writing,

and which existed in Pacific cultures long before European contact, and alongside oral

traditions.

My purpose with this section is to argue that, just as Teaiwa proposes, we

Marshallese were producing our own forms of texts and using materials from our

environment, reflecting a world distinctly Marshallese, long before we came in contact

with Europeans. This production co-existed alongside our oral traditions, another form of

storytelling that preserved our values and our knowledge. I use the word co-existed

purposely – I am in no way proposing that one form of storytelling and literature is more

important or valid than the other. I do not wish to belittle the importance of Marshallese

oral traditions by beginning with our visual texts. Instead, I would like to argue that both

these forms of literature are equally important, but by beginning with our visual texts, I am

introducing another origin story – that Marshallese literature was writing as well as

speaking and listening.

Historian David Hanlon has written on Pacific people’s ability to write and present

their history in their own ways, referencing the Pohnpeians who use the art of tattoo as

their way of writing and preserving their history. He also argues against focusing on first-

contacts or cross cultural encounters with the Europeans, saying that in doing so, we are

limiting the history of the Pacific.

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If we admit that contact, encounter, and colonialism are the loci through which Oceanic pasts have been approached, we must also admit that these events and processes are but a part of the pasts of this area of the world, and not the only, first, or necessarily most important foci for historical investigations of the region. (Hanlon 2003, 26) Albert Wendt reinforced this when he referenced the art of the Samoan tattoo as

a way of preserving ones history and identity in his essay “Tautauing”, and also as a

methodology for indigenous literary criticism (Wendt 1999, 399).

If one was to liberate Marshallese literature from the constraints of European

contact, as well as oral genealogical origins what would one find? Where is the evidence

of our visual writing? Marshallese are not known for drawing petroglyphs or carving

alphabet letters onto clubs like the Aboriginal people of Penny Van Toorn’s history (Toorn

2006) . What do we have that might be seen as early evidence of “writing”?

The first obvious form is the eo, the tattoo. One origin story told by Lerooj Litarjikyt

Kabua in 1951, based on a story she heard from ri-bwebwenato Vatcb from the

northwestern islands, can be found in Jack Tobin’s collection Stories from the Marshall

Islands (2002). According to this tale, tattooing originated from Vewej and Vaneej, two

men from heaven who were both Irooj of the Vajjidik jowi, or clan. They brought tattoo ink,

a tattoo house, and they tattooed all the people, beginning with the Irooj. “The Irooj were

tattooed on the face. After they finished tattooing the Irooj and the people and the fish; all

the animals, they put colors on everything. There were no colors before that” (Tobin 2002,

49). The importance of tattoos to Marshallese culture is demonstrated by this origin story

– tattoos were brought down from the heavens, from two of the highest Irooj, they were

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used to mark the other Irooj as well as commoners, and to bring color to a world that had

previously been without.

Dirk Spennemann has also written on the history behind Marshallese tattoos,

drawing his work from the research of Catholic priest and amateur anthropologist August

Erdland, who studied and lived in the Marshalls from 1901 to 1911, and the work of

German researchers, Augustin and Elisabeth Kramer and museum curator Hans

Nevermann. According to Spennemann’s Marshallese Tattoos (1992), Marshallese drew

from our surroundings and the elements for our tattoo designs and motifs. Crabs, shells,

fish, sharks, dolphins, ocean waves, and clouds all served as inspiration for tattoo

designs. Spennemann writes that, “it becomes clear that spiritually and conceptually

Marshallese tattoos and their motifs are firmly rooted in the marine environment”

(Spennemann 1992, 27). Marshallese used the art of tattooing to record what they saw

around them.

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Figure 2 Marshallese tattooing motifs (right) and their natural examples (left). (Spennemann 1992, 29)

Other designs included tools and objects that were used – sticks to pick breadfruit,

grass stalks, nets for cleaning or soaking breadfruit, fans, woven rope belts, canoe parts.

There was supposedly one depicting the position of “praying to the gods” (38). Also, the

size and position of tattoos were indications of rank and social status. While most men

and women above the age of twenty or so were tattooed, certain types of tattoos, such

as facial and neck tattoos, were restricted to high ranking Irooj and Lerooj.

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Figure 3 Head tattoo of Irooj Laninat of Mile (Spennemann 1992, 79)

Figure 4 Shoulder tattoo of Lerooj Nen from Tinak, Arno (Spennemann 1992, 108)

The symbols used in an eo were used to tell stories of what kind of environment

the tattooed person was in, what they valued, how they worked, and also their place in

society. In a sense, the symbols used in an eo could be “read,” to tell a different story, or

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the symbols could be used to “write” a different story according to the person being

tattooed.

According to Spennemann’s recordings, more modern tattoos were also based on

weaving symbols and motifs. Tattoos used the designs that could be found on fine mats

and arranged them in similar ways to weaving. Which brings us to our second evidence

of visual text: aj, Marshallese weaving.

Figure 5 The structure of a fine Marshallese mat with a series of ornament zones pointed out with the name of that zone (Spennemann 1992, 54)

According to Spennemann’s research, the designs on a jaki, or a mat, were

representative of Marshallese society. As Figure 5 shows, there were eight different

zones identified on the jaki. Spennemann translates and describes what five of those

eight zones represents:

1) Vcvc (to wreathe), the offsprings in a lineage who inherit their land rights from their mother

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2) Joor – (pillar or post), the important positions held by both irooj (chiefs) and alap (lineage heads)

3) Tiltil – (embroidery), the offsprings of a lineage inheriting their land rights through the father

4) Igig – (intertwined), the special relationship between the father’s and the mother’s lineage

5) Bokwcj – (to embrace) the parental embrace tightly safeguarding the valuable bond of love, peace, and harmony among the members of the clan (Spennemann 1992, 54)

These five definitions and meanings demonstrate how Marshallese wove different

motifs into their jaki as a way of preserving cultural values such as genealogy, land

inheritance, the importance of children and parents, and the love between family

members. A weaver with a knowledge of the history and meaning behind these symbols

and motifs could ostensibly “read” a jaki and see what that particular weaver has to say,

and vice versa a weaver could “write” or weave a very different story with each jaki.

Besides tattooing and weaving, other important evidence of visual text is derived

from the Marshallese skill of navigating the ocean. In an article in The Micronesian

Reporter in 1951, a spotlight on Marshallese navigation featured Raymond deBrum, well-

known Marshallese expert in Marshallese navigational skills. An editorial in the beginning

describes how effortless and skilled Marshallese were at navigating the sea: “But it also

is said that to the Marshallese who have been trained from infancy in the art of navigation

by sail – who know how “read” the waves and “feel” the currents – sailing is like climbing

a coconut tree – child’s work” (Olson, 1951) .

Here the editor of the Micronesian Reporter, Cynthia Olson, attempts to explain

and conceptualize indigenous Marshallese ways of knowing through the framework of

western terminology. She aptly connects the act of reading with navigating the waves,

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using the metaphor of reading words across a page and connecting it to reading waves

across the lagoon. Both are skills which are acquired through training and practice. Both

rely on certain symbols and images to convey a meaning. And this idea is applied more

vigorously in the Marshallese stick chart, our third evidence of Marshallese visual text.

As stated earlier, the knowledge which inspires Marshallese stick charts is nearly

2000 years old. The sticks depict natural phenomena and interpret the wave and current

patterns that strike the islands. As will be mentioned later, there are three different

versions of the stick chart that are generally sold in handicraft shops on Majuro. Those

recorded the Handicrafts of the Marshall Islands (2006) include the rebbelib, the medo,

and the wapepe. The rebbelib is a general square shaped wave chart which can include

all of the islands in the Marshalls. The medo covers only a few islands and is said to be

useful for specific voyages. The wapepe (pictured earlier) is a smaller, cross shaped chart

which depicts the waves around a single island (Mulford 2006, 8).

Stick charts were included in the training undertaken by Marshallese men seeking

navigational skills. According to an interview with deBrum, these charts used to be well-

kept secrets - only amongst families and experts were they shared. Kramer and

Nevermann (1938) also wrote that there were no regulated systems for making the stick

charts, and that one school did not offer the same teachings as the other so that each

stick chart could only be interpreted by its maker.

One of the elders I interviewed, Captain Korent Joel, also mentioned that a few of

the most recognizable stick charts, even the more well-known ones such as the medo

and the rebbelib, are ones he had never seen before. This is corroborated in articles such

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as Dirk Spennemen’s Essays on the Marshallese Past: Traditional Marshallese Stick

Chart Navigation from his website “Digital Micronesia – An Electronic Library and

Archive:” last edited in 2005: “In fact some types of stick charts of today, particularly the

two common types of the rebbelip charts, are believed by some old men to be recent

introductions that were influenced by modern methods of mapping and plotting positions.

The only type that was verified by several old men to be authentic was the wappepe type.”

While the history behind the stick chart remains somewhat shady, what can be

argued is that what we have here is another piece of evidence of Teaiwa’s “visual literacy.”

We Marshallese constructed, through materials from our surroundings, and through our

own ways of knowing and learning, a model for depicting and preserving our knowledge

of “reading” waves and island locations. And it only makes sense that one of our first texts

would be a navigational chart, reflecting our knowledge which helped us survive and

thrive.

In this same way, Marshallese adopted western forms of reading and writing to

also reflect our culture and our survival. The stick chart becomes not only our first example

of a text – it also symbolizes the history of writing which followed after. The sticks

overlapping and connecting one another reflect the writing which has come along different

waves, through different patterns, different genres. And standing steady in the middle of

it all is our islands – a representation of our culture, history, and knowledge of ourselves

as a people.

Grasping for Orality: An Introduction to Basic Terminology

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In May 2013, I was invited to University of Hawai’i Hilo to perform poetry for a few

classes and for the community. I took this opportunity to meet with the Marshallese Iakwe

Club, the student club at UH Hilo comprised of Marshallese students, and to conduct a

writing workshop which focused on Marshallese bwebwenato. To begin the workshop, I

informed the students that the focus of my thesis work at UH was on Marshallese

storytelling, and that this workshop was a chance for me to gain their valuable insight into

the medium. I then asked participants what, in their opinion, constitutes Marshallese

storytelling. Immediately, they named two specific traditions – bwebwenato and inxg.

When I asked them to define these traditions, the students began to engage in a lively

debate over what the difference was between bwebwenato and inxg. Some argued that

inxg was exactly the same as bwebwenato – others felt that bwebwenato was real life

stories, while ifog was merely made up fairytales. At one point a few of them actually

turned to me and demanded that I find out the true definition and difference between

these terms during the course of my thesis work.

A large portion of the students who made up this group had been born and raised

in the Marshall Islands. For a few them, this was their first time living in Hawai’i. I chose

this group because I saw them as my peers but with one major difference: most of them

had been raised entrenched in Marshallese culture in the Marshall Islands, while I had

the experience of growing up in Hawai’i with what felt like a confusing mixture of both

American and Marshallese culture. I thought they would have valuable insight into

Marshallese storytelling from their background that I did not have. While I did learn quite

38

a few different things from the participants, this situation in particular demonstrated how

muddled and oftentimes confusing these forms are even to other Marshallese who have

been born and raised back home.

To begin discussing the different forms of Marshallese orality, I will start by

providing an overview and brief definition of each form that I came across throughout my

study. As the previous anecdote demonstrates, these definitions are not by any means

the only definitions out there. They are merely the definitions I found in the most

commonly referenced text for Marshallese definitions - the Marshallese English Dictionary

written and compiled by Takaji Abo, Byron W. Bender, Alfred Capelle, and Tony DeBrum

(1976). Or if the terms were not found in this text, then the definitions I have cited were

ones given to me by the elders I had interviewed. Besides bwebwenato and inxg, I will

also expand the terms under the tradition of orality to include roro, ikid, jabonkonnaan,

and al in mur.

“Bwebwenato” is the most well-known form of Marshallese orality. In the dictionary

“bwebwenato” is defined as: “Talk; conversation; story; history; article; episode; lore;

myth; tale. Ta fe koheag ej bwebwenato kake? What are you four talking about? Ehhan

ke bwebwenato ilo pija eo bog? Did the movie last night have a good story?

Kabwebwenato. Make a conversation with a stranger.” Below this definition was the term

“bwebwenato bajjek” which is simply defined as a “chat.” Further down, “bwebwentoon

etto” is defined as “legend” (Abo, Bender, Capelle 1976, 47).

“Inxg” is defined as: “Legend; folkloristic story; fiction; lore; myth; day-dream. Ionun

ia ne kwoj ifog kake? Where does that legend you’re telling come from (Abo et al. 1976,

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77)?” The definition is somewhat similar to bwebwenato, however much less fluid, and

seems to focus on the myth and folklore more.

“Roro” is another genre which falls under the category of oral traditions, one that

I’ve mentioned a few times already. “Roro” can be categorized as both a verb and a noun,

depending on its usage, and is defined as follows:

Chant; shout rhythmically while doing a job requiring team work, as carrying a canoe. Eor roro nan aope kain jerbal. There is a chant for any type of work. Lollap en ekanooj jela roro. The old man can really chant. Rej rooje aer jerbal. They’re chanting while working. Elon rujan wa i lometo. There are many chants for a vessel in the lagoon. Anything goes at sea. (Abo et al. 1976, 253) According to the Merriam-Wester dictionary, “chant” can be further defined as: “to

say (a word or phrase) many times in a rhythmic way usually loudly and with other people

These definitions give a basic overview of the most commonly referred-to forms of

Marshallese oral traditions and have been the focus of most anthropological studies

(more so with bwebwenato and inxg rather than roro). Throughout the course of my

interviews with my elders, however, I came across a few more terms which fell under the

category of orality. Jabonkonnaan is one of those forms.

Jabonkonnaan is defined in the dictionary as a “Proverb or saying” (Abo et al. 1976,

82). I had not considered this an oral tradition because it did not fall into my own

categories of chant or stories at the time. However, each of my interviewees mentioned

it as an important aspect of orality, and I later came to find that jabonkonnaan could be

seen as a sort of building block of Marshallese orality.

The other terms I came across during my interviews and my research are not

defined in the dictionary, and have been hard to locate in scholarly articles. The first was

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the “ikid.” I first learned of the ikid from my interviews. The earliest documentation I could

find of the ikid was in Jack Tobin’s Stories from the Marshall Islands, dictated to him by

Jelibcr Jam from Kwajalein Atoll , who defines ikid as “al im bwebwenato: song-stories.” In

the footnotes, Tobin included his observation of the sounds of the ikid, which differentiate

it from the other forms. “This, and all ikid are chanted in an almost continuous, low

monotone by the narrator. They were chanted by navigators to help keep them on course,

and awake and alert. (Presumably the low tone helped assure secrecy.)” (Tobin 2002,

128). The ikid has also been defined by a few of my interviewees as a type of roro.

Whether it is a roro or a song-story, one thing everyone agreed on is that the focus of

these forms is specifically on navigation. The most famous ikid is “Ikid eo an Vainjin” an

epic tale which documents all of the navigational signs throughout the Marshall Islands.

One of the few places where one could find this chant in its entirety is in Tobin’s collection.

I also received copies of different versions from my mother. When I first asked my parents

about the ikid, they both agreed that this might be the closest thing to “slam poetry” in the

Marshallese language, since it is a spoken/story/song - which definitely captured my

attention.

The second form that was brought up is one that I have not been able to find in

any other sources so far. This is the “Al in Mur,” another type of traditional singing which

uses lower keys and was generally used by sailors to stay awake while paddling and by

grandparents and parents to lull their children to sleep. This was brought up by a few of

my interviewees – however I have yet to find any written documentation of this form.

41

While these definitions are helpful in understanding the different forms, they still

left some questions unanswered. I wanted to know more about what has been found in

the past, what type of work anthropologists have done in this field, and what new

questions needed to be asked and answered. To accomplish this, I did a preliminary study

of the work done by explorers, scientists, anthropologists, and scholars before me. I

thought that by grounding myself in this work before interviewing my elders, I might be

able to question the claims made within these texts and gain expert opinions on whether

these claims were true or false. Unfortunately, some of this work was found after my

interviews, and so I was unable to reference all of them in my field work.

Reading Orality: Diving into a Sea of Anthropology

The earliest writing I could find on Marshallese oral traditions comes from the

explorations of Otto von Kotzebue, a lieutenant in the Russian Navy whose expedition

was funded by a Russian nobleman to explore the world from 1815 to 1818. Kotzebue

was in the Pacific to explore and chart the islands that were there for Count Romanzoff

of Russia. They made two trips to the Marshall Islands, or what they called at the time the

“Radak” or Ratak chain of islands. The first was for three months in 1817. The second

was seven years later in 1824. He was accompanied by a crew which included Adelbert

von Chamisso, and French artist Louis Choris. Their written accounts were published in

three volumes, and were originally published in 1821 before being republished in 1967.

A Voyage of Discovery into the South Sea and Beering's Straits provides detailed

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descriptions of early Marshallese lifestyle. The closest I could find in these accounts which

seemed to resemble some aspect of our oral tradition is one description that was written

by Kotzebue (1967) when they landed on one of the atolls of Aur on the 19th of Feburary:

The princess ordered a pantomime, with songs, which is called by the inhabitants Eb, to amuse me. Two of her play-mates sat themselves by her, the one beat a drum, and the other joined now and then the solo song of the princess, which resembled screaming. The name Totabu was frequently repeated, and I only regret that I could not understand the words. The pantomime would perhaps not have been much amiss if they had not, in the heat of action, and at the same time gesticulated so furiously, that the foam stood in their mouths. (Kotzebue 1967, 112-113)

This scene demonstrates aspects of what used to constitute our oral traditions –

the use of a drum, a performance, and what seems to have been a story. The name

“Totabu” was also the Marshallese pronunciation of Kotzebue, so we can assume from

this and the actions portrayed that the performance was meant to convey Kotzebue as a

fierce warrior. Another recording occurs when the explorers come into contact with a

Marshallese chief named Rarik:

Rarik took me to his house to witness another dramatic representation: the subject was the war on Majuro [Majro]. Women sang, or rather screamed, the deeds of the warriors; and the men in their dances endeavoured, by angry gestures and brandishing their lances, to describe the valour of the combatants. (Kotzebue 1967, 321) This scene demonstrates one of the primary uses of our oral tradition – warfare.

The singing/screaming of the women is evidence of one of the important roles of

Marshallese women – which is to encourage and give strength to the Marshallese men

when they are about to enter battle. In this case, they were retelling those tales of valor.

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Besides this instance, Chamisso also took the time to record an appendix entitled

“Songs of Raduck.” Raduck was the term for one of the chains of the Marshall Islands –

what is today known as the Ratak chain. Those who translated the work of Kotzebue and

Chamisso decided to leave this section which uses German letters to describe the

Marshallese sounds being used. The first song is one that is sung by the women and was

translated as:

Dive in the sea six times, Rise from the sea six times, (repeated six times) Seven times! (Kotzebue 1967, 433) From this particular recording, we see another aspect of Marshallese lifestyle –

one that centered on the ocean which surrounded our islands. This also demonstrates

another instance where the women are using oral traditions to spur their men to action.

The second song recorded is one that is sung by a chief of Likiep atoll, whose

name is recorded by Chamisso as Wongusagelig, and details his travel from when he

departs from Likiep atoll to Aur atoll, when those of “Meduro” or Majuro and Arno were at

war with him. The English translation is recorded below:

Wongusagelig Goes under sail; On the beach the people throng! Shift the sails Round! Strike we not on the reef! Land out of sight! Ebb! Ebb! Wongusagelig, (repeated) And there resounds the command, Keep the ships together! There dashes the wave surely in! To the ship before steer! steer! steer! steer! steer! steer! Carries away us, the flood! (Kotzebue 1967, 433)

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In this particular instance, the “song” tells the story of a particular event. It

demonstrates the importance of orality to remembering and recalling historical events in

the Marshall Islands. This is also the earliest mention of the land of “Ebb” or Eb – a

mythical island which is continuously referenced in later recordings of bwebwenato. Eb

was said to be an island where the soul went after a person passed away.

While these recordings are labelled as “songs” rather than stories or chants

specifically, it can be argued that they are also evidence of oral traditions because of the

fact that they accomplish many of the same goals as roro and bwebwenato. Also, “songs”

the way we might imagine songs today, would have sounded different in the past. It is

possible that Chamisso used the terminology of “songs” merely because it was the closest

description he could find from his own background to apply to the situation – when in fact

it could have been either roro or al in mur.

A preliminary look into the scholarship on bwebwenato, inxg and roro since then

demonstrates that most of this work has been undertaken by outsiders, and that the focus

has been mainly on bwebwenato in particular, and has been generally and act of

collection and preservation, rather than an actual study and analysis.

One of the earliest recordings comes from Erdland. According to his observations,

Marshallese children were “greatly interested in tales and legends, through which, by the

way, they learn the vocabulary of the language. In the evening hours parents and older

natives tell stories until the children fall asleep. A good memory and quick perception

enable mere five-year-olds to recount all kinds of stories and tales fluently.” This

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observation demonstrates the traditional form of learning – which was generally through

the oral traditions of storytelling. “The islanders had no indigenous alphabet. They

transmitted their thoughts by word of mouth. Their panomimicry is richly developed and

characteristic of them” (Erdland 1914, 58). This quote demonstrates that there was no

need for an alphabet system back then since Marshallese had such richly developed oral

senses.

Besides these observations, Erdland also includes a page of collected

jabonkonnaan, or proverbs, along with their definitions and translations, but no

commentary. Besides jabonkonnaan he also includes a section entitled “poetry” where

he writes,

They composed poetry to American melodies. Aside from church hymns, the modern poetry can be divided into love poems and sailors’ poems. Both kinds are very difficult to translate, especially the sailors’ poems, since they contain many particular terms from sea and weather lore that are incomprehensible to the common people and are part of a higher language of the nobles and experts. The thoughts are very beautiful. (Erdland 1914, 69)

This observation brings about a number of questions – just what does he mean by

the term “poetry”? Obviously, he is using terminology from his own background of western

literature. If this was the case – what would be the closest thing to poetry? Is what he is

referring to as poetry actually roro or even the ikid? This could be the case, especially

since the words he states being used are the “part of a higher language of the nobles and

experts.” These “nobles and experts” he refers to could be the navigators and the chiefs.

They would have been the ones to have access to the more complicated and secretive

roro, which generally used more “particular terms from sea and weather lore.” Navigators

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were also generally of a higher class than the other commoners because of their specific

knowledge and skills – it would make sense that they would be using more complicated

terminology that could not be easily deciphered by an outsider anthropologist with limited

linguistic skills.

Along with poetry, Erdland also includes a collection of myths, and describes the

technique of bwebwenato as follows:

The method of narration is usually lively and brief; the recital is fluent, even when children or young people narrate. The text of the story, as far as the words are concerned, is not fixed and varies according to the skill of the individual. The text of so-called “songs” however, which are commonly sung between two important events or during longer intervals, is invariable. One cannot really speak of singing; it is more a recitation. Whole sentences are rattled off recto tono, during which the voice is raised or lowered a major or minor second or at the most a third, as the individual wishes. This spoken singing is very tiresome and soporific to our ears. Moreover, the meaning of the individual words is very difficult to understand because of the frequent contractions and mutilation of the words (“poetic license”). Nevertheless, they may not be omitted, since with the progress of comparative linguistics some scholar may yet succeed in determining the meaning of words that at present are incomprehensible. (Erdland 1914, 71)

Lines such as “This spoken singing is very tiresome and soporific to our ears” or the

“mutilation of the words” are insulting to read, and are evidence of Erdland’s

condescending manner and bias towards those he was studying. Nevertheless, his

observations are useful in that we can glean certain techniques from this tradition – for

one thing the fact that the “songs” take different keys, which he describes as “raised or

lowered a major or minor” in using the terminology of traditional western music. His

description also reflects the description used by Tobin of the ikid. It is possible, in fact,

that some of the spoken-singing he witnessed was the recitation of the ikid. We do not

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know for sure, however, since there is no explicit mention of roro or ikid in Erdland’s

publication.

Since Erdland’s study, more anthropologists and western scholars have visited the

Marshall Islands and had their interests captured by our bwebwenato. Contemporary

collections include Jack Tobin’s Stories from the Marshall Islands (2002), as mentioned

earlier, Bwebwenattoon Etto: A Collection of Marshallese Legends and Traditions (1992)

from Jane Downing, Dirk H.R. Spennemann, and Margaet Benett, along with

Jabonkonnaan in Majel: Wisdom from the past: A collection of Marshallese Proverbs,

Wise Sayings & Beliefs from Bernice Joash, Kinuko Kowata and Donna Stone (2000),

and A History of Marshall Islands by Gerald Knight (1982).

Jack Tobin’s Stories from the Marshall Islands seems to be one of the oldest, with

interviews from 1950 –1975. Tobin was in the Marshall Islands for around three decades

of his life, after he first arrived in Arno Atoll as a part of an anthropological expedition.

This collection is in both Marshallese and English, and complete with over 90 different

stories that begin with “Jinoin Val In”, or “The Beginning of this World,” dictated to him by

Jelibcr Jam from Kwajalein. Jam was educated at the Protest Mission School on Jaluit

Atoll, and worked with the Japanese government as an interpretor and field officer for

many years. Jam is a descendent of Vatcb, a ri-meto or navigator and ri-bwebwenato or

storyteller, who was well known for being taken by the Germans, put inside a ship until

they were far from his home atoll, and tested to see if he could find his way back home.

He did, because of the presence of lihlih or arrowroot detritus in the water (Tobin 2002,

373).

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Jam began his story for Tobin with a preface which echoes the concerns of many

of the elders today: “This is the longest and most important story in the Marshall Islands.

Old people know it. But the young people do not know it. They are not interested. They

only want to learn the knowledge of the white man” (Tobin, 2002, 11). Jam uses this

opportunity to tell not only a story that is important to him, but also to comment on what

he sees as a crumbling society and culture due to the influence of “the white man.”

Tobin reasserts this claim in the preface when he states that “All of my informants

seemed to like giving me information, and all of them agreed that it would be beneficial to

record the stories for future generations as well” (Tobin 2002, xi). In the introduction to

this collection, Tobin mirrors the lament of Jam when he states, in reference to roros, that

“some of the roro will, of course, disappear along with the activities with which they have

been associated as, for example, sailing canoe roro” (Tobin 2002, 8). He also comments

on bwebwenato along the same vein, stating that “The lack of interest, motivation to learn,

and consequent lack of recruitment of replacements will undoubtedly result in the

eventual disappearance of the ribwebwenato, living depositories of Marshallese culture”

(Tobin 2002, 9).

What is significant to note is that out of twenty two informants who were cited and

interviewed by Tobin, only one of them was female – Lerooj or Chiefess Litarjikyt Dorothy

Kabua of Majuro Atoll. The story she told to Tobin focused on the goddess Liwstuonmour

from Namo Island, who was said to have been the mother of all the Irooj, or the chiefs,

and was guardian of the people and brought people back to life. Lerooj Kabua is well

known for being strong, opinionated and vocal. She was actually one of the first women

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to speak out against the nuclear testing conducted at Bikini and Enewetak atolls.

Accompanied by her son, Amata Kabua, high chief and future first President of the

Marshall Islands, they represented Micronesia at the UN Trusteeship Council meetings

in July of 1953. Lerooj Kabua was able to use her position and her voice to speak out

against the unjust and inhumane treatment of her people. It is a possibility that her status

as a lerooj allowed her the freedom or the agency to be able to be interviewed by Tobin.

Another point for Tobin’s collection is the fact that it so far has the only full, printed

version of “Ikid eo an Vainjin.” Not only is it available in Marshallese and English, but it is

heavy with footnotes explaining each ancient Marshallese term, and the relevance and

modern day position of each navigational sign. When I interviewed Alfred Capelle, a

cultural expert with extensive experience in Marshallese traditions, he asserted that this

copy is the only full and accurate copy. What also makes this collection so valuable are

the footnotes and the comments section which Tobin includes in all of his stories. Not

only is the reader given a specific story, but he also provides important information which

places the stories, explains certain archaic terms or kajin etto and provides a context to

understanding the stories on a deeper level.

Bwebwenatoon Etto, is a collection compiled and edited by Jane Downing, Dirk

H.R. Spennemann, and Margaret Bennett and was published by the Republic of the

Marshall Islands Historic Preservation Office in 1992. This is one of the more common

collections of Marshallese stories, and is used in high school and middle school as

reference material for Marshallese courses. These stories are also available in both

Marshallese and English, however the quality and quantity of the stories are far less than

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Tobin’s, with about only 20 stories. The anthropological data available bases its critiques

off of western forms of knowledge, such as Greek mythology. Instead of citing the

storytellers, this collection merely groups all of the stories together as common stories

well known by most Marshallese. This is problematic – because there is no biography,

background, or context included, the voices of the storytellers, an integral factor to the

stories told, are deemed unnecessary. This is an act of erasure – and demonstrates the

problems anthropologists have been commonly critiqued for – the act of taking and not

giving proper due where it is necessary.

Another important distinction between Tobin and Spennemann collection is the

inclusion of a specific character – namely Letao. Letao figures as a main character in

many of the stories in Spennemann’s collection, however he is barely mentioned in

Tobin’s work. Letao is our most famous trickster figure, similar to Hawaiian hero Maui and

other mythic characters. He has been known to give Marshallese the knowledge of fire,

sailing, and he is also generally used as a character who demonstrates what Marshallese

generally see as negative qualities, such as pride, jealousy, and greed. He also continues

to have a presence in today’s Marshallese subconscious – he is still well-known by many

Marshallese youth.

Jabonkonnaan in Majel is a collection that is usually grouped with Spennemann’s

Bwebwenatton Etto and is used in the high schools and middle schools in the Marshall

Islands for Marshallese Language curriculum. This collection was compiled by Donna K.

Stone, Kinuko Kowata, and Bernice Joash and published by the Marshall Islands Alele

Museum most recently in 2000, with funding from the Mitsubishi Bank Foundation and

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support from the organization Japanese Overseas Cooperation Volunteer (JOCV). The

preface begins by comparing jabonkonnaan to proverbs of the English language. I

especially appreciated their breakdown of the term into two separate words – “jabcn”

meaning “end of or edge of” and “kcnaan” meaning “to talk.” Put together then the term

would mean “the edge of talking,” or a way of indirectly expressing ones’ self (Joash,

Kowata, and Kinuko 2000, v). I appreciate this breakdown of definitions because I have

not heard this explanation anywhere else (vi). This collection is useful not only for the

authors’ interesting perspectives on jabonkonnaan but also because it provides

explanations in both English and Marshallese. According to my own family members, this

collection does not cover all of the proverbs that are used in the Marshallese language,

and quite a few are not properly explained or given the depth they deserve. However, it

is still useful as a reference.

A History of the Marshall Islands is a book which focuses on the stories of one

specific storyteller – La Bebedin of Rongelap Atoll. His authenticity and stamp of approval

is given in an introduction by publisher Joe Murphy, a former Peace Corps volunteer and

life-long resident of the Marshall Islands who also began and continues to run the Marshall

Islands Journal along with the Micronitor which published this collection. “Gerald “Jerry”

Knight is one of the best known authors of Pacific lore and culture currently in print today,”

writes Murphy. “His particular focus on the Marshall Islands has made him an accepted

authority on the history of the islands.” The collection was compiled and published by

Gerald in 1982 and also includes about 20 stories.

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Besides these collections, Phillip McArthur’s dissertation The Social Life of

Narrative: Marshall Islands analyses narrative and its role in the social life of Marshallese.

I found his work to be closely tied with my own studies of the role of oral traditions in our

culture. McArthur is a former missionary of the Christian denomination the Church of

Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (LDS), and his four years of work is the first attempt to

foreground the place of narrative in Marshallese social-cultural life. There have been

previous attempts to collect Marshallese bwebwenato and inxg into volumes for

preservation and posterity. However, this is the first attempt at analyzing those stories

and how they reflect the Marshallese culture and the social structure of Marshallese

society.

An interesting part of his dissertation is his analysis of a live performance. He strips

the story down to a text and analyses one of his interviewees’ performance line by line,

noting when the man stutters, how he redirects the story, when he gets loud or quiet, and

so forth. While this revealed a lot about the narrative structure of Marshallese

bwebwenato, there was also assumptions being made on McArthur’s part about the ri-

bwebwenato. Also, stripping down the story to a text seemed unreasonable, and seemed

to defeat the entire purpose of bwebwenato. Bwebwenato is meant to be live, not textual.

However, what is interesting is how McArthur’s informant applies the traditional story of

Jebro to explain modern day relations. The legend of Jebro is also known as the origin

legend behind the sail for the Marshallese canoe. According to the legend, twelve brothers

decided to compete in a canoe race to see who would become chief of their atoll. As they

lined their canoes up along the shore, their mother came along with a bundle under her

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arms. She asked the eldest, Timur, if he would take her on his canoe with him. But

because he was more concerned with winning and was worried she would slow him down,

he told her to ask his younger brother instead. Each brother responded in the same way

to their mother until she got to the youngest, Jebro. Jebro decided to let her on his canoe.

When the race started and they had reached the middle of the lagoon, his mother

unravelled her bundle and hoisted up a sail, allowing his canoe to fly faster than the rest

of his brothers, and winning him the title of Irooj. One of the main morals of this story is

Jebro being rewarded because he honored his mother, thus demonstrating the

importance of our matrilineal society (McArthur 1995, 184).

According to McArthur’s informant, the primary difference between American

culture and Marshallese culture is the principle of matrilineal descent, and that the

unfortunate consequence of Americanization are men forgetting their mothers in their

pursuit of money and success. McArthur explains that for his informant, the American way

is embodied by Timur, the eldest brother individualism while Jebro represents the valued

Marshallese model of appropriate conduct within matrilineal relations (185). McArthur’s

analysis of how these legends are applied to relationships with America continue further

when he discusses the trickster character Letao in regards to American relationships:

He asks the rhetorical question of how we can make sense of Letao stories (lines 82-83) and then answers his own questions: They are like American movies, something you see, but what you see is not real. People are not really killed, it just looks that way: Letao was not really a coconut tree, he just looked that way. Both movies and Letao stories are deceptions. And those movies belong to the Americans, who, like Letao, present many kinds of ambiguities. (McArthur 1995, 380-381)

54

McArthur is able to present how a Marshallese man explains the ambiguities and

the mystical qualities of legends by comparing the legend and magic of Letao to that of

fictional television shows. The reader is able to see how Marshallese even in the modern

times can use traditional legends to make sense of life around them. While I found some

of McArthur’s dissertation lacking, especially when it came to his analysis of Marshallese

politics, I found his analysis of key legends, symbols, and common sayings as a basis for

understanding the roles of our legends in today’s society to be particularly useful.

While McArthur, Tobin, Spennemann, and Knight’s works portray varying degrees

of authentic storytelling, they also present a number of problems. The fact that many of

them are written by outsiders only serves to differentiate and locate these collections at

a distance from our culture. While they do provide a valuable source of Marshallese

culture and knowledge, they are nonetheless limited by the positions and background of

the authors, collectors, and intended audience. If these collections were intended entirely

for Marshallese, perhaps they would have be more inclusive and accurate, owing to the

fact that the Marshallese audience would be more critical and aware then a foreign

audience. The Marshallese in general are apt to keep certain information to ourselves

rather than share it with outsiders – so in this regard, it is possible that their interviews

were actually more limited. Also, as males, they might have been less privy to cultural

stories and information about women, or might not have been able to grasp certain

important cultural details from their position as males. It also raised a number of questions

for myself – just what would a Marshallese ri-bwebwento tell another Marshallese,

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particularly a young Marshallese, raised in the diaspora, seeking to learn about her own

culture? How would their answers differ?

There were other specific questions I wanted answered as well. I realized I was

not so much interested in collecting all the Marshallese bwebwenato, roro, or jabcnkcnaan

as I was in the social purposes, history and genealogy behind them. What was their

purpose in the past? Who qualifies as ri-bwebwenato? What are other forms of oral

traditions? Who was the first to begin using these oral traditions? And are they as

important today as they were in the past?

I knew I would find a few of these answers through my interviews.

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CHAPTER 2

Jitdah Kapeel: Interviews with Elders

According to the Marshallese English dictionary, the term “jitdah” means to “Seek

knowledge; look for the true pedigree; study one’s genealogy; inquire of an authority.

Jitdam kapeel. Seeking knowledge guarantees wisdom (a proverb). Jitdahe ke ej ja

mour. Inquire of him (who has the knowledge) while he’s still around (Abo, Bender,

Capelle, deBrum 1976, 109).” My mother broke down the term a bit further for me, and

explained that if one was to split the terms “jitdam” in two, it would be “jit” and “dam.” “Jit”

would be alluding to “jijjit” which means to sit while “dam” means forehead, which alludes

to sitting and metaphorically touching foreheads with your elders. Since the head is an

especially sacred part of the body for Marshallese, and it is where all knowledge is stored,

it makes the concept of “touching foreheads” that much more significant.

When I began my research, I was in the Marshall Islands, specifically on Majuro

atoll visiting family for the summer while also co-teaching a course at the College of the

Marshall Islands (CMI). I used this time to conduct my interviews. Before my interviews

began, I drafted a list of questions that I sought answers to. I let the conversations wander,

following the general structure of bwebwenato, or talking story, but used this list of

questions as a guide. My line of questions focused on the origin of the traditions, how

they defined the different traditions, how they explained its purpose, their own musings

on whether or not these traditions are still being used, and how they were used in the

past. I also asked each elder to tell me the bwebwenato or roro which they found to be

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most important in terms of value to Marshallese manit or history. I also paid attention to

the style they spoke in, and how roro sounded different from bwebwenato. Besides this,

I asked for their opinions on the ikid, al in mur, and the jabcnkcnaan to see how their

understandings of the concepts differed or were related to what I’ve studied so far and

how these forms might dialogue with one another.

Writing and critically analyzing the interviews for its content was a hurdle I had not

been prepared to leap over. I was not able to fully grasp the depth of everything we

discussed because I was unable to understand some of the words and concepts that

were explained. I can only hope that after an extended period of living at home, and

possibly a longer period of studying and learning, will these ideas and concepts finally

sink in. For the purposes of this portfolio, however, understanding every nuance,

metaphor, or jabcnkcnaan, was not necessary since the focus was not on presenting

perfect, indisputable answers. While it might help my readers to actually see the text of

what was being said, ultimately it would not assist what I am attempting to accomplish

with the purpose of this portfolio – which is to find my own connections to these traditions

to inspire my poetry. In the study of Marshallese orality, I came to learn rather quickly that

there are no set answers – on many topics, my elders had completely different answers

and opinions. Instead, I decided to focus on the emerging themes and concepts. In what

ways did their definitions and history of Marshallese oral traditions dialogue with one

another, and with the texts I had studied previously? In what ways did their stories

contradict one another? When I sat down to write my reflection of these interviews, I also

decided to use a more “bwebwenato” style of writing – a talking story type of writing which

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sounds less academic, more storytelling, and focused on questions such as, “What

captured my mind poetically, linguistically? How did real life chanting sound, and how did

it make me feel?” This style of writing reflects the way these interviews were conducted,

as well as one of the forms of Marshallese orality.

After I had drafted my questions and decided how I would analyze these questions,

I asked my parents for their recommendations on how to proceed with the project and

also who to interview. They recommended names such as Willie Mwekto, Carmen Bigler,

Captain Korent Joel, Alfred Capelle, amongst others. I should also add that my parents,

like other Marshallese I approached about this subject, always added, after telling me

their recommendations, that most of the best storytellers had already passed away. In

their mind (and this was reiterated throughout my interviews) Marshallese orality is a

dying tradition as each elder endowed with these specific skills passes away. At the time

of writing this thesis in fact, my first interviewee, Willie Mwekto had sadly passed away

on December 10, 2014. I was unable to attend his funeral because I was still attending

school here in Hawai’i. Learning of his death was both shocking and deeply saddening.

It also made me realize how much more important it was that I write this portfolio with the

same passion that he showed me during our discussions.

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Willie Mwekto

Figure 6 Willie Mwekto, pictured here in the kitchen of his home

Mr. Mwekto had spent most of his life teaching classes on Marshallese language

and culture at CMI and is a well-known expert in roro and bwebwenato. I have witnessed

him roro at special occasions and events, and he served as expert witness in numerous

court cases on land and culture. Mr. Mwekto also self-published a rare and an incredibly

valuable book called Kadkad In, which documents the ancient terminology of Marshallese

language and orality. I received my copy from my mother, who impressed upon me the

fact that it is so far the only other published copy she has seen in years. This book will be

discussed further in Chapter 3. Mr. Mwekto was also my grand-uncle – he was my

grandmother’s eldest brother, on my father’s side, which is one of the reasons my father

always recommended him.

At the time of the interviews Mr. Mwekto had been forced to retire due to a number

of medical illnesses – diabetes, high blood pressure, and gout being just a few of the

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illnesses which restricted his movements. Because of these factors, I met with him at his

home. I met with him on four separate occasions – he was hard of hearing at the time,

and this, coupled with my limited Marshallese linguistic skills, made our conversations

pretty difficult to navigate, which made more frequent interviews and visits necessary.

I generally dropped by in the afternoon, taking a taxi over to his house in

Demontown after teaching at CMI. Mr. Mwekto’s wife, grandson, or his particularly

aggressive dog would greet me at the door. His wife, who happened to be one of his

former students, would announce my arrival, help him out of bed and supported his weight

as he walked over to sit with me at his kitchen table. Mr. Mwekto had shaky hands, thick,

weak legs from gout, and a gummy smile that reached the twinkle in his pinched eyes.

His wife would sit in the adjacent living room throughout most of our conversations, yelling

over her translations of my questions or his answers when either one of us couldn’t

understand each other. While we talked orality, I would snack on cold cups of kool-aid,

hot boiled pandanus, or fresh donuts that his wife offered me. To reciprocate for the time

he spent with me, I brought over fruit and cans of juice, and later, at his request, a bulk

package of frozen chicken legs for his birthday party. Visiting with Mr. Mwekto was always

a mixed bag – I never knew what to expect. He had a very racy sense of humor,

punctuating our deep conversations with his dirty jokes and a twinkle in his eye.

There were a number of points which stood out from my conversations with Willie.

The first, was that to fully understand the Marshallese language, one must also

understand the language of lag, lxjet, and ene - or the language of the sky, the ocean,

and the earth, respectively. These three types of languages are the building blocks of the

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oral traditions. This was actually reflected in his book as well, which was split into chapters

focusing on lag, lxjet, and ene.

I learned the most about roro from Mr. Mwekto. On the few occasions that I have

witnessed chanting done in other cultures, such as in the Hawaiian culture, chanting

seemed to have a specific purpose – for an occasion, a welcoming, or a thank you. I came

into our discussions with that preconceived notion, having seen Mr. Mwekto chant during

the opening occasions of some Marshallese events in the past. But, according to Mr.

Mwekto, Marshallese chanting is different because it is not limited to special occasions.

Mr. Mwekto talked about how there are roro for everything – even for specific plants. Also,

unlike other Pacific cultures, roro is not limited to certain positions or people – but, it is

limited by the family you come from. Certain roro and knowledge are passed down only

to family members, and some families can be very guarded about this knowledge. He

explained that just as how certain people have specialized knowledge of subjects such

as math and psychology, there are specialized knowledge of certain aspects of

Marshallese culture, such as roro, navigation or traditional medicines, and that some

families hold the monopoly on these knowledges. For his part, Mr. Mwekto said he learned

about roro from his grandfather in Kwajalein. His grandfather taught him about the

different languages of the earth, and the different names for clouds, currents, and waves

– all of which he transcribed into his book. When it came to the origin of roro, his answer

varied with different interview sessions. At one point, he mentioned a Marshallese woman

named Tarmelu who had taught everyone about roro, including his grandfather. But

during another session he said it was Liwstuonmour, a Marshallese woman, goddess, or

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deity (her identity depends on who you talk to) who had given birth to the first line of Ralik

chiefs, and was known to have lived on Naho atoll. I was fascinated and intrigued by the

idea that one of our traditions actually came from a woman. Who were these women who

birthed the spoken word? What were they like? I wondered if the other elders I interviewed

might be able to give me more solid information.

When asked about whether or not roro is still being used today, his answer was

that it is - but that its use has been limited by Christianity. According to Willie, Christianity

wiped out most of the roro being used because of the taboo topics of a few of the roro,

specifically those that dealt with topics such as sexuality. At the same time, however, he

also stated that “manit” or Marshallese culture, was also to blame for the disappearance

of roro, because it was manit which policed the use of taboo roro.

While it seemed that most of our discussions focused on roro, Willie also

introduced me to the actual performance of “Ikid eo an Vainjin” – the type of song or chant

used for navigation. He was able to perform some of this chant for me, but stopped

midway because he was unable to recall the entire chant. It was a lengthy chant, and

similarly to the other roro he had performed, moved quickly without a beat or a pause,

and with inflections at certain points in his voice.

From this discussion with Mr. Mwekto, I learned some key information: I learned

about the different aspects of Marshallese language, the purposes of roro, and his

explanations for what he thinks is a dying form due to manit and Christianity. I was also

introduced to the importance of Liwstuonmour for the first time. Throughout our discussion

of roro, he would actually break out into roro without warning – I only knew that he was

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chanting because he spoke quickly, the words flowing over one another without a pause

or a beat, and with the inflection of his voice going high and then low at different parts.

Afterwards I would ask him if that was a chant, and he would nod with a smile.

Alfred Capelle

Figure 7 Alfred Capelle pictured here in the Retirement Center

Alfred Capelle was another interviewee who came highly recommended. Mr.

Capelle has led a very accomplished career, from Director of the Alele Museum, to

President of the College of the Marshall Islands, to serving as an Ambassador, and most

recently working at the Office of Manit. He was also directly involved in the work of

collections such as Bwebwenatoon Etto and the Marshallese English Dictionary. Mr.

Capelle is tall with long limbs, spoke quietly and confidently, and our conversations flowed

smooth and unencumbered. Unlike my interviews with Mr. Mwekto, I only had one

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meeting with Mr. Capelle – mostly because he was able to answer my answers quickly

and succinctly and also because he had a series of doctor’s appointments throughout the

summer that kept him preoccupied. For our interview, we met at the retirement center

near the courthouse. While other elders were taking computer lessons, playing cards,

and talking story nearby, we discussed orality.

We started the interview by discussing the roro, al in mur, jabcnkcnaan, and

bwebwenato. His definitions were similar to those I had found in the dictionary. “Al in mur,”

however, was a new type of oral tradition that I had not heard before my interview with

him. According to Mr. Capelle, it was a type of song that we used in the past – we did not

have Christian songs or the western form of singing, which utilizes harmony and rhythm

and other forms. Instead, we sang al in mur. Al in mur is decidedly more spooky sounding,

because it does not rely on harmony and utilizes lower pitch levels. Al in mur was used

during long voyaging canoes, but it was also used by parents when lulling their children

to sleep. Mr. Capelle was not able to provide an example – however he recommended a

future interviewee who would be able to – Lobwij Lorak. Following our discussion of al in

mur, we then briefly discussed the jabcnkcnaan, which Mr. Capelle explained as a

“guideline” or, “rules for conduct”. The definition of jabcnkcnaan is generally limited to

“proverb”, so hearing his explanation added to those I had previously read about. Mr.

Capelle defined bwebwenato as legend, history and talking story, demonstrating the

fluidity of the term.

One of the topics that struck a chord with me was the origin of roro. Mr. Mwekto

had put forth the theory that roro originated with Liwstuonmour in a previous interview, so

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I decided to propose it to Mr. Capelle to see if he agreed with that theory. Mr. Capelle

said that he saw it as plausible, adding that since Liwstuonmour was also the mother of

clans, and since she birthed that important Marshallese lineage, it is also plausible that

she birthed the roro.

After discussing the different types of orality, I shifted the discussion to the fact that

Liwsuonmour and her sister, Lidrepdrepju, were both known to be rocks – specifically

basalt pillars. Ever since I had learned of this, I was fascinated. I saw Lidrepdrepju in real

life, on the rocky shores of Aur, back when I took a trip out there with my mother two years

ago while she was campaigning for the Aur Atoll senator’s seat. My mother had told me

that I really needed to see this Lidredrepju – she impressed upon me the importance of

this historical site. When I saw it, however, I have to admit I felt a bit underwhelmed.

“That’s it?” I thought. It was simply a large rock in the middle of a reef, standing between

the island of Aur, Aur and the next island, which was only a few yards away from where

we were standing. What made this rock so special? I didn’t see any different markings or

anything spectacular that would make it stick out. From then on I kept wondering – what

is up with the basalt pillar? I kept asking other people why this was such a big deal but I

was never satisfied with their response.

I have to say that Mr. Capelle’s response was the best response. “Eban jako.

Permanence.” he said. “Eban jako” translates to “It will never be gone.” He added that

breadfruit trees, coconut trees, even shrines – these decay at some point. But these rocks

will always be there. He also added that there is a tangible, familiar quality to it – at any

time of day throughout the years, one can simply walk to the other side of the island and

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there is Lidredrepju. It is not a mystical imagined being – it is right there in front of you.

Children can walk right up to it, swim and jump off of it (though I’m not sure whether they

actually do this or not). According to Tobin, the stone was used to sharpen weapons

before wars – another interesting concept (Tobin 2002, 51). What I took away from this

aspect of our conversation is that it’s a material object that can withstand the test of time.

After doing a bit more research on Lidrepdrepju and Liwstuonmour in Tobin’s

Stories from the Marshall Islands, it turns out that while Lidrepdrepju is still there,

Liwstuonmour was cast into the sea by a missionary – Dr. Rife. According to Tobin:

“Although the rock (deks) was thrown into the sea many years ago, the story is still known

on Naho or was when I visited there in 1951.” He actually mentions that it was my uncle

Dwight Heine who brought him to the rock and told him about the legend. Tobin adds “It

is indeed unfortunate, to say the least, that a possible clue to the origin of the Marshallese

people has been lost because of the misguided action of an overly zealous missionary.

He was obviously trying to eliminate the competition” (Tobin 2002, 54).

Another point that stood out to me during our conversation was Mr. Capelle’s idea

that roro had been replaced by modernity. Here Mr. Capelle’s definition of roro differed

slightly from Mr. Mwekto. Mr. Capelle explained that roro was used to bring strength to

our bodies to accomplish tasks such as building canoes and houses. Following along this

line of theory then, his idea is that roro is no longer necessary because our types of daily

work has changed. Mr. Capelle explained that today all you need to carry a canoe is a

truck – there is no need for a chant as there is less physical strength being exerted in the

task. At one point, he even joked that trucks, gas, money, and beer are the new roro. We

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both laughed at the joke during this interview but upon reflection I felt there is a profound

sadness to that statement.

The last point which stayed with me was our discussion of the structure of roro

itself. I asked Mr. Capelle about how people learn to roro – are there specific guidelines

to pitch levels, when to speak quickly, slowly, what words to use, etc.? According to Mr.

Capelle, there people learn roro through imitation. There are no specific ways of

constructing, writing, or performing roro. Imitation was how we learned these traditions

from the beginning. This fascinated me – this means that the roro that we listen to today

are like time capsules of history. We might not be able to understand all of the words that

are used, but just listening to a chant is like listening to another era, another society in

which our ancestors are alive and well. One can almost imagine it.

Lobwij Lorak

Figure 8 Lobwij Lorak pictured here in the Retirement Center

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Lobwij Lorak was the third elder I interviewed. He came recommended to me from

Mr. Capelle. Mr. Capelle said that Mr. Lorak stopped at the Office of Manit from time to

time just to talk story with him about manit and culture, and that he (Alfred) had learned

a lot just from these discussions. He also mentioned that Mr. Lorak would know more

about al in mur. I met with Mr. Lorak at the same retirement center that I had previously

met with Mr. Capelle. Mr. Lorak was dark, leathery skin beneath long - sleeved checkered

shirts tucked into pleated slacks, his black and gray hair gelled and combed back in thick

waves. Mr. Lorak was not working at the time of our interviews, and was supported

instead by his family members. Mr. Capelle knew this, and asked me to provide a small

monetary compensation for Mr. Lorak as a means of reciprocation for the time he spent

helping me. Unlike my other interviews, he spent most of our conversation telling me

different bwebwenato, rather than discussing the terminology itself or the purposes

behind orality. And rather than defining specific terms through his own interpretation, he

generally chose to use bwebwenato as an explanation. Mr. Lorak seemed to enjoy the

process of bwebwenato more than the other elders. Unfortunately, I had trouble

understanding a lot of his stories – and he had trouble explaining them. Unlike Mr.

Capelle, Mr. Lorak spoke less English, so at times he was unable to explain certain ideas

and terms to me, and instead recommended that I ask Mr. Capelle.

Case in point – one of his first stories was one that explained the origin of the term

“jake jebol eo.” The story centered on a man name Totali Ban, a man who supposedly

was unafraid of anything and boasted constantly about his strength - until another man

named Bikar wagered that he’d be able to kill him just using a flock of birds. In the end,

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Bikar was able to best him, which is when Totali says at the end, “Iolok im jake jebol eo.”

Unfortunately, I was unable to fully understand the story and its depth. I had a few

questions that we were unable to answer because of our language barrier – he had

trouble understanding my questions, and I had trouble figuring out how to ask them. But

what I did take from the story was the concept that jabonkonnan has origins in

bwebwenato, that stories could explain the proverbs themselves, and that these forms

could dialogue with one another.

The next story he told was the story of the twelve brothers. This was a story that I

have heard before, which centered around eleven brothers who all had one arm and one

leg – all except for the twelfth brother who had both his arms and legs. Because he was

different, he was ostracized and made fun of by the rest of his brothers. As the story goes,

although he was the youngest and the weirdest he was able to save all of his brothers in

the end from a demon, using his cunning and his ability. According to the story, the

brothers were immortalized as a set of twelve rocks that can still be seen in Arno.

At this point, Mr. Lorak laughed and said that you can never tell with some of these

bwebwenato if they’re true or not – maybe it was twelve brothers, maybe it was ten. His

point being, some of these stories and their details might have changed or evolved over

time. What is true, however, is that those rocks in Arno are still there to this day. In this

way, Mr. Lorak was able to demonstrate another important aspect of bwebwenato – its

use as an origin of landmarks. A number of the bwebwenato he cited were used to explain

landmarks in other atolls. This also reminded me of Liwstuonmour and it made me realize

that her story was also an origin landmark story.

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One of my favorite parts of the interview was when I asked what he considers one

of the more important roro to Marshallese culture. He recited a roro which originates from

the proverb “kors im ajrs.” Unfortunately, my only recording of his recitation was lost. But

from what I remember, it focused on the power of lightning, and the power of women. I

first read of this jabcnkcnaan in a collection provided by the non-profit organization

Women United Together in the Marshall Islands (WUTMI) headed by Carmen Bigler (one

of my later interviewees). They define it as follows:

Women provide stability in rough situations. “Ajrs” is lightning that comes from the center of the sky and strikes only once. This is usually a sign that weather will improve, even if dark clouds appear everywhere and the wind blows very hard. Once women appear and act, like this type of lightning, things will improve and calm down. (WUTMI: Women United Together in the Marshall Islands, 2009) Mr. Lorak explained that this was a reflection of one of the most important values

of Marshallese culture: women’s strength.

Nickson David

Figure 9 Nickson David pictured here in his office at the Courthouse

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Nickson David was my next interviewee who was recommended to me by both Mr.

Mwekto and Mr. Capelle. Mr. David was a bit younger than the other elders I had

interviewed, but had just as much experience with Marshallese culture and preservation

– which made him an ideal candidate for his position as a judge in cases that dealt with

traditional rights to land and inheritance. He had long arms and a shock of gray white hair,

thick glasses that he peered over while screening calls and visits from co-workers. He

chose his words carefully as he thought through his answers, and studied the papers in

front of him with the same interest as if he had just received them that day. The papers

he was studying, and which he gave me copies of, were handouts he had collected over

the years that included roro that I have not seen published anywhere else, as well as

jabcnkcnaan and other Marshallese terms. We referenced these sheets throughout the

interview, and Mr. David used them as a guide for our conversations. He went through

the different jabcnkcnaan and roro that he found interesting and explained the depth or

added a definition of his own for each one.

Mr. David’s interview differed from the others in two ways: one was that his focus

and specialty seemed to be his ability to break down specific Marshallese words to their

roots, and to give their definitions more depth. For instance – he broke down the word

“Irooj” which is the Marshallese term for chiefs, to “erwuj” which means multiple people,

which refers to the multiple people coming together for that one person – for the Irooj. In

this respect, Mr. David was able to explain that our language itself is a reflection of our

culture and customs – in this case, our respect for our Irooj is indicated by the specific

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word chosen for them. On the other side of that coin, the Irooj is not just a single entity

representing power, but he also represents the power of all the people who support him.

The second pivotal difference between his interview and the previous interviews was his

emphasis on hanit. Hanit is defined in the Marshallese English dictionary as “Custom;

behavior; conduct. Ejeva hanit. He knows how to conduct himself. Ejevs kilen kchanit. He

knows the workings of protocol (Abo, Bender, Capelle 1976, 213).” His assertion was

that roro and bwebwenato are inseparable from our culture and customs – and that they

are influenced but also conduits of the practice of hanit. He also mentioned that hanit

does not just refer to the way people act but also to language, and that to fully understand

the depth of jabcnkcnaan and bwebwenato, one must first understand hanit.

Another aspect of our conversation I found interesting was when he discussed the

roro of Ebon. This was a specific chant that celebrates the story of the Morning Star, the

ship which landed on Ebon atoll that brought the first missionaries to the Marshall Islands.

This chant is still repeated, even during church services. It not only reiterates a historical

event that can be corroborated by outside sources but it also fuses two forms of thought

– it is a Marshallese tradition celebrating the introduction of a foreign tradition or religion.

Genealogy was another theme to our conversation. According to Mr. David, bwebwenato

and roro are important because you learn about the family lines through these mediums

- not from anything written down. As stated earlier, genealogy is an incredibly important

part of Marshallese culture. To demonstrate this importance, he gave me a copy of a

lineage of chiefs, which included my great grandfather Jetnil, who, it turns out, is the

connection between me and Mr. David – we are both descendants of Jetnil. Equally

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interesting was the fact that one of the first names listed at the top of the chart, the mother

of all the chiefs, is a woman named “Liwatoinmour,” which is a different way of spelling

Liwstuonmour. I asked Mr. David if this was in fact the same Liwstuonmour who birthed

the Ralik chiefs. He paused to think about it, but shook his head. He only said that the

people on the chart are usually real people – not characters from bwebwenato or inxg.

His answer also told me that from Mr. David’s perspective, the characters in these stories

are not historical figures, but rather mythical characters.

Carmen Bigler

Figure 10 Carmen Bigler pictured here in the kitchen of her home

The importance of genealogy was a topic which was revisited in my interviews with

Carmen Bigler. Mrs. Bigler received her Bachelor’s degree in Anthropology from

University of Hawai’i when there were very few Marshallese women attending and going

to college, before returning home to the Marshall Islands to work at various government

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positions. She became one of the more well-known figures in Marshallese history when

she became elected, as the only woman, to the Congress of Micronesia in 1965. She was

also a co-founder of WUTMI or “Women United Together in the Marshall Islands,” a highly

influential non-government organization for women and has held various leadership

positions within the government. Unlike the other elders I had interviewed, I actually grew

up with Mrs. Bigler, knowing her as one of my tougher, charismatic grandmothers from

my mother’s side. As a child I remember tagging along with my mother when she dropped

by her house just to talk story. This time I went solo to talk orality with Mrs. Bigler at her

home in Batkan. Ms. Bigler always struck me as tall, almost overbearing with an attitude

that never backed down or apologized, accentuated by graceful hands that swayed as

she joked and teased those around her. She had just recently had surgery on her leg,

and was still in a cast. But this did not make her any less sharp. She thanked me for the

banana bread I had baked her (as per instructions from my mother as a thank-you for her

assistance) and then proceeded to critique my less-than-stellar kajin hajel. After she had

her fill of thoroughly teasing and making fun of me, we began our conversation.

What stood out about my bwebwenato with her was the reasoning she gave for

the types of bwebwenato and roro she focused on. When I asked about her knowledge

of bwebwenato and roro, she began by saying that she did not feel qualified as an expert,

and that she only felt comfortable sharing the stories and chants which originate

specifically from her own family. She explained that each family has bwebwenato and

roro which preserves family history, and which belong specifically to that family. I found

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this interesting, because (through my study of the collections) I had come to assume that

most bwebwenato and roro are community and culturally based knowledges.

Another important part of our bwebwenato was on how these forms have begun to

disappear. While Mr. Mwekto blames Christianity, and Mr. Capelle blames modernity,

Mrs. Bigler’s argument was that the oral traditions are disappearing because the language

itself has begun to disappear. According to Mrs. Bigler, with fewer Marshallese speaking

the “proper” form of Marshallese language, and with less knowing traditional and also

“ancient” Marshallese language, these forms have begun to lose their power and people

are in turn losing their knowledge and understanding of them. In fact, just my use of the

term “ancient” to describe certain Marshallese words and ideas demonstrates the chasm

that has grown between the language of today and the language of our past.

When I asked her what bwebwenato she would categorize as most important, she

named a specific bwebwenato from her family. Their great grandmother, Litarmili, was an

Irooj’s wife who lived on Majuro. He abandoned his wife and went to Laura to live with

other lovers (a common practice back then amongst Irooj, Ms. Brigler added). While in

Laura he heard from others that his wife, rather than waiting around for him, had left with

her family to the island of Arno. The Irooj immediately took a fleet of canoes with him to

Arno, retrieved Litarmili, and then went to live on a piece of land called “Mon kiri.” The

women who had been his lovers decided to see go and check out their competition. When

they arrived, Litarmili came out and performed a roro: “Litarmili kabug karein Majuro/

Julele julele kotabal lag/ ga wot itobar Irooj eo.” These lines can be loosely translated to,

“Litarmili honors/worships the women of Majuro/ Reach, reach for the heavens/ I’m the

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only one to reach the chief. “ In this roro, Litarmili is basically teasing and shaming the

other women, claiming that she alone was able to reach the chief in his high position. Mrs.

Bigler told me that this roro is the most important and well-known roro to their family, and

explained that its significance lies in the fact that it demonstrates the importance of their

great grandmother, that the Irooj turned away from his lovers and sailed to Arno just to

win her back. And the fact that Mrs. Bigler chose this roro further demonstrates the

importance of their matrilineal line, and the woman who began that line.

Korent Joel

Figure 11 Korent Joel, pictured here in the dining room of my parents' home

The second to last interview was with Captain Korent Joel. Captain Korent was

continuously referenced by the other elders, especially when the subject of navigation

and navigational chants came up. He came highly recommended by my parents and by

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anyone I talked to about the topic of orality. Captain Korent is one of the last Marshallese

endowed with the knowledge of traditional Marshallese navigation, a remnant of the past.

He is also skilled and well-versed in western forms of navigation. He served as one of the

principal informants for Joseph Genz’s dissertation Marshallese Navigation and

Voyaging: Re-Learning and Reviving Indigenous Knowledge of the Ocean (2008).

We met at my parents’ home in Rairok. Our meeting was set up by my cousin

Senator Wilbert Heine, who knew him personally and also drove him over for our

interview. Because I had been told over and over how important and knowledgeable this

man was of the sea, I imagined Captain Korent to be a giant, burly seaman, who defied

the odds of the ocean and who could easily survive stormy nights on canoes and

chartered ships, with thick hands for hoisting up sails and carving canoes. I was surprised

then, to welcome a thin, somber man to my home, who was almost as small as I was -

smaller than the rest of the elders I had interviewed. He was withdrawn, quiet, with thin

shaky hands, cracked, taut skin, and half his face sagging slightly more than the other

half. He informed me that he had suffered from the debilitating consequences of a stroke

for many years. Everything he said hung with a dark heaviness. Case in point – the reason

for his stroke. Captain Korent explained that he felt the stroke came about as punishment

for assisting Genz in his study on navigation. Because Genz was an outsider, and not

rimajel, he felt that perhaps his decision to assist him had offended someone. Who he

was referring to was unclear – he mentioned that it could be other Marshallese who

disagreed with him. But he also hinted that it could be a more ominous, omniscient

presence that was punishing him. This demonstrates Captain Korent’s perspective that

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respect and reverence towards traditional Marshallese knowledge is necessary – not only

because it deserves respect, but also because of the consequences should that

knowledge be used improperly. It was also the only time during my interviews that an

elder felt, saw, and openly explained the consequences of assisting an outsiders’

research. The previous elders reiterated that they had no problem helping researchers –

as long as it meant that it would help preserve knowledge in the long run.

This story also demonstrates is Captain Korent’s belief that there are real world

consequences for the decisions that we make about knowledge. For Marshallese,

knowledge is not something that is shared readily. It is not a right for everyone to have.

Rather, it is given to those who are deemed worthy. Navigation, traditional medicine,

tattooing, lineage, magic – these knowledges were drenched in secrets that were passed

down between family members, and were not readily shared with others.

Captain Korent also told me about learning traditional navigation from his

grandfather. He remembers being told to lie on a canoe, and asked which direction the

waves were going in. If he got it wrong, he said, he was severely beaten. When I

expressed my shock at the severity of the consequences, he responded that his

instructors had to be tough because if a navigator made the wrong calculations, people

would die.

Another important part of our conversation was our discussion on stick charts.

Because stick charts plays a key factor in this study (I discuss this later in Chapter 2), and

because of his expert navigational experience, I was curious about his knowledge of

them. From a book entitled Handicrafts of the Marshall Islands which was written by Judy

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Mulford, I showed him the section entitled “Meto” which displayed a number of different

stick charts (Mulford 2006, 7). I asked him to show me how they’re generally used. When

he looked at the different versions however, he said that two out of three of the stick charts

shown were not real stick charts – he said he had never seen anything being used like

that before, and that they, the “medo” and the “rebbelib” stick charts, were fake. See figure

12 and 13 below.

Figure 12 - The "Rebbelib" stick chart. Photograph from the Handicrafts of the Marshall Islands booklet (Mulford 2006, 7)

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Figure 13 - The "Medo" stickchart. Photograph from the Handicrafts of the Marshall Islands Booklet (Mulford 2006, 8)

The only one which he recognized was called the “Mattang” or the “Wappepe,” a

stick chart defined by the booklet as “a small, square shaped teaching chart that identifies

wave patterns formed around a single island” (Mulford 2006, 8). See figure 14 below.

Figure 14 - The "Wappepe" or “Mattang” stick chart. Photograph from the Handicrafts of the Marshall Islands Booklet. (Mulford 2006, 8)

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He also expressed his distaste with stick charts being sold in stores as Marshallese

handicrafts for tourists. He recounted an experience where he saw a man making a stick

charts to be sold. He asked the man if he knew how to use the stick chart, to which the

man replied sheepishly that no, he had no knowledge of it – only how to make it. Captain

Korent finished this story by saying that this could have dire consequences, and that he

felt it was not right to be making and selling these stick charts, and buying them as well,

if one had no knowledge of how to use it. In this sense, he seemed to be alluding that he

disagreed with the marketing and commercialization of stick charts – he hinted there could

be dark consequences if this practice kept happening.

Besides this discussion on stick charts, I attempted to guide our conversation to

the ikid. According to Captain Korent, there are only two types of ikid – Ikid eo an Vainjin,

as was previously mentioned, as well as what he called “Ikid en an Kabua,” which tells

the story of one of the paramount chiefs’ journey and battle. He also admitted to learning

the ikid, that it was especially useful tool for navigation, and that the kokvav (navigational

signs) throughout it are still relevant and true to this day. When I asked him to recite the

ikid however, he politely refused – actually he did not so much refuse as he ignored the

question and changed the subject multiple times (a cue to me that basically meant no.)

He would only say the other person who would be able to recite the ikid in its entirety, and

recite it well, is Irooj Mike Kabua. Unfortunately, Irooj Mike was traveling off island

throughout the summer that I was researching on Majuro, and so I was unable to ask him

to recite it for me.

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Nidel Lorak

Figure 15 Nidel Lorak pictured here in a conference room in the Nitijel

My last interview was with Senator Nidel Lorak. Senator Lorak represents Arno

Atoll in the Nitijela, the government of the Marshall Islands. Senator Lorak was

recommended by a number of the other elders also. He has a long standing history

serving as senator in the government, and at one point was the Ministry of Education

(MOE) and helped put together a number of materials for Marshallese education. One of

them is a book I reference later – Naan Ko Roune. I had been trying to get in touch with

him for a number of weeks, and finally reached him. When we set up an appointment,

though, he didn’t make it, and I found later something came up. Luckily, we were just able

to squeeze in one interview the morning that I was about to fly out of the Marshall Islands

back to Hawai’i. We met in one of the meeting rooms in the Nitijela, where his office is

located nearby. Senator Lorak had trouble walking due to diabetes and gout and walked

around with the assistance of a thick cane. He also shaded his eyes with pair of black

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sunglasses that gave him a cool look. As with many Senators, he was comfortable

speaking and expressing his views and was lively and very charismatic.

Because of his previous work with MOE, most of his ideas and views focused on

curriculum development, and what he saw as a failure on the part of the ministry to do

proper development of Marshallese materials. He was adamant in his support of further

research to be done to promote Marshallese culture in schools, and was very critical of

the Marshallese Language Arts (MLA) program. He talked about how Marshallese cultural

knowledge was generally passed down through grandparents, but that this has changed

so that more children are learning about culture through MLA classes rather than at home.

“Ikijog jetok pein bubu im jimma,” he said. “Jitok pein bubu im jimma” is a saying which

basically means laying with one’s grandparents and listening to their stories, a practice

that seems to be happening less and less, evidenced by what he sees as a lack of

knowledge of practices such as roro in the younger generations. He compared the

Marshall Islands to Hawai’i and Guam, saying that Hawai’i was now working to revitalize

their language, as is Guam, but that most of it is gone because of privileging American

knowledge and the English language over their native tongue.

His fear of losing cultural knowledge was one of the reasons behind writing his

children’s book, Naan Ko Roune, a collection of jabcnkcnaan, bwebwenato, values, and

ideals. I asked him why he felt it was important to write this knowledge into a book,

especially in a culture that seems to value orality more than the written text. Nidel agreed

with this viewpoint adding, “Armij in majol ejjab armij in jeje” meaning, “the people of the

marshalls are not people of writing.” He went on to explain that if one was to look back on

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history, writing was a practice done by “ripelle”, or outsiders and foreigners. Despite this

perspective, he also saw that more and more elders were passing away, and that their

knowledge of Marshallese culture and values were dying with them. He felt that writing

this book, and other Marshallese materials like it, was a way of saving that knowledge

and eternalizing it for future generations. Senator Lorak’s act of writing his book

represents the countless other rihajel before and after him who have used textual

production, something decidedly western and non-Marshallese, as a way of cultural

preservation. Writing, then, does not mean succumbing to foreign influence and doing

away with traditional Marshallese culture and values, but instead a way to preserve those

values, and to keep Marshallese culture alive. His book is one example of how

Marshallese have used text to survive and thrive. It was heartening to hear this, and to

see another elder corroborate what I have been suspecting all along – that there does not

need to be a divide between Marshallese oral traditions and written traditions. That

instead, the two can and should support one another.

Reflections on Preservation

Initially, I went into my field research expecting at least a few solid answers

regarding our oral traditions. From my interviews, I learned more about the act of

bwebwenato, I developed a deeper understanding of certain jabcnkcnaan, I imagined the

past as I listened to Mr. Mwekto roro, and I was introduced to the ikid, al in mur, and to

Liwstuonmour and Lidepdepju, the possible foremothers of roro. I felt I had developed a

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slightly deeper understanding of the Marshallese oral traditions. And yet I was not by any

means closer to being considered an “expert.” If anything, I came away with more

questions, and more holes, than definite answers. I realized that Marshallese oral

traditions are so much more fluid than I had imagined, and that their definitions and

purposes varied according to who you spoke to.

With this group of elders for example, I only came to a realization later that most

of my interviews had been with Marshallese men. This was mostly because I had received

more suggestions for male interviewees rather than female interviewees. This might

suggest a gender bias amongst my informants. Although I only highlighted the interview

with Carmen Bigler, I had actually also interviewed two other women whom I had not

included here: Josepha Maddison, Deputy Historic Preservation Officer, and Mary Silk, a

fellow instructor at College of the Marshall Islands. I was unable to include these

interviews however, because of logistical errors – my discussion with Josepha Maddison

had been one of my first interviews and this was reflected in my initial stumble: the entire

interview unfortunately had been recorded over a tape recorder that had no tape. With

Mary Silk, we had numerous conversations but these were never officially recorded, and

we were never able to book a solid interview because of our schedules. Both had valuable

insight into oral traditions that would have added to this portfolio. However, as this portfolio

is only the beginning, I do hope to revisit these interviews with these women, and to also

include more women in general, and build upon what I have in this portfolio for future

research endeavors. Having this awareness did bring to mind a few questions: namely,

how would my insights into oral traditions have varied if I had interviewed as many, or

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more, women than men? What kinds of information and stories would I have learned? In

what way would gender play a role in oral traditions? In the end, though, I have to be

content with what answers I do have.

My interviews taught me that oral traditions was a way to process the world around

us, and to pass down our stories, history, values and customs. At the same time,

however, I also realized that oral traditions are more than ancient or archaic knowledge

that needs to be preserved like a dusty museum artifact behind a glass case. If anything,

these traditions are living, breathing entities that are yearning to be experienced, over

and over again. Experiencing these traditions is experiencing the past, listening and

honoring our ancestors and the knowledge that helped keep our people alive and thriving

for thousands of years.

As I turn my focus towards textual evidence of expression in the next chapter, one

of the themes which stayed with me from these interviews and which guided my overview

and analysis of the following texts was the purpose behind our need to speak and tell

stories – our intrinsic desire to preserve. It is this desire to save our thoughts and ideas,

to capture an imprint of life as it passes by us – it is this is that ultimately guides many

Marshallese into a new era, into a form of expression.

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Chapter 3

Compasses and Writing in the Sand: European Contact

Before examining the texts written by Marshallese, I would like to begin by

introducing and analyzing the recorded observations I was able to find documenting first

Marshallese contact with the European form of writing/storytelling. As explained in earlier

chapters, Marshallese had been using elements from our own environment to tell stories

and convey knowledge centuries before the European explorers appeared with their own

tools (namely the pencil and paper). These introductions, however, pushed Marshallese

into another realm of storytelling beyond orality, tattoos, and stickcharts: textual

production.

The earliest documented Marshallese interaction with other forms of writing that I

could find was with explorer Otto von Kotzebue, as well as with missionaries Edward

Doane and Hezekiah Aea, who were the first to teach formal writing, and the first to write

and publish Marshallese language texts. The earliest recording came from Kotzebue’s

first exploration in the Marshall Islands – specifically on the atoll of Odje (now known as

Wotje). As explained earlier, Kotzebue was in the Pacific to explore and chart the islands

that were there for Count Romanzoff of Russia. They made two trips to the Marshall

Islands, or what they called at the time the “Radak” or Ratak chain of islands. The first

was for three months in 1817. The second was seven years later in 1824. At one point

during the act of meeting and greeting, a Marshallese native who is identified as

“Lagediak” by the explorers, along with a group of other Marshallese, are all invited by

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Lieutenant Schischmareff on board their ship on January 21, 1817. At one point, the

Lieutenant attempted to persuade Lagediak to show him the group of islands around the

area. Lagediak used a compass to point that the islands were in the South. The Lieutenant

then immediately wrote down those directions, and in doing so introduced Marshallese to

their act of European writing:

The writing was a new discovery, which excited their attention as well as reflection. I tried to make Lagediack understand that all we spoke was written down on the tables; wrote his name down and said, that is Lagediack. He was greatly frightened to see himself represented by such singular figures, and seemed to fear that he would be obliged, by magic, to assume such a shape; the others laughed heartily at the comical Lagediack on the tables, while he himself stood in great uneasiness, expecting the terrible metamorphosis. (Kotzebue 1967, 68)

The initial reaction of rimajol to the foreign concept of writing was fear, as well as

uneasy laughter and fun. From Schischmareff’s observations, we are led to believe that

rimajel saw writing as a form of magic – that writing could be seen as a separate

representation of what it is actually recording. The idea of rimajel reacting in this way to

writing seems charming – while there is definitely fear recorded, it seems as if the laughter

also meant that the act of writing was just as much a novelty to them as the other foreign

items they were introduced to by these explorers. This fear, however does not last long,

and Schismschmareff was able to get Lagediack to use the pencil to mark channels and,

passages, and the other group of islands.

Another instance in which we see Marshallese using writing in the accounts of

Kotzebue is a scene in which Kotzebue is interacting with islanders on an atoll they called

“Torua,” which we know now to be Taroa, an atoll in Maloelap. At one point Kotzebue is

speaking with Langedju, a chief of an atoll they called “Olot” (it is unclear which

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Marshallese atoll they’re referring to here). Like his Lieutenant, Kotzebue is again asking

the islanders to help him understand the geography of the surrounding islands. Kotzebue

drew on the sand the island groups which Lagediack had previously identified, while

stating their names. While Lagedju was impressed with his knowledge of the names of

the islands, he also took it upon himself to correct the map he had drawn, effectively using

the stick to draw the map as he saw it. “The map, as was afterwards proved, was very

correct; for, as I discovered all these groups, I have accurately copied it in my notebook

(Kotzebue 1967, 108-109),” wrote Kotzebue.

This situation did not utilize the traditional writing method of pencil and paper,

which meant that Langedju did not have the same type of wild reaction as Lagediack.

However, it did portray a type of writing through the use of a visual representation. If

writing is merely a visual recording of a thought, then why would this instance not count

as writing? In this case, Langedju immediately understood what Kotzebue was trying to

ask, and took up the use of the sand and stick to correct, display, and pass on his

knowledge of the surrounding islands.

These two observations are so far the earliest recordings I have found which

portray Marshallese interactions with writing. While they are two decidedly different

situations, they are similar in the sense Kotzebue and his officers create the situation by

their attempts at understanding the geography of their new surroundings. It is only with

the assistance of the Marshallese that they come to this knowledge – and it is only through

the act of writing and the use of visual representation that the two groups are able to

communicate this knowledge to one another. In one situation, the writing uses tools which

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are foreign to the Marshallese – this is probably more or less the reason for their fear and

shock. Their reaction is probably more to do with the tools being used, as well as the use

of alphabets – a foreign concept to a culture that so far has had no need for writing its

language down. The second situation incites less fear and shock because it utilizes tools

from their own surroundings, and also because these tools are used to represent

something they probably have experience teaching – navigation. Navigation is something

that was always a part of traditional Marshallese knowledge – it would make sense that

Langedju taught him this information with ease.

Holy Printing Presses: Publishing the Word of God

When I first decided to conduct a survey of all Marshallese literature, I knew I would

be leaving out an important part if I did not consider the Bible. The Bible is probably the

only text that is widely read by most of the Marshallese population. I sent out a message

to my older cousins, aunties, and uncles asking them what they would consider important

Marshallese texts and, of course, the Bible was the first suggestion. The conversation

which arose out of this suggestion was what I found interesting, and telling.

My cousin Daisy, a staunch church goer who proudly sports a “Couples with Christ”

sticker on her car on Majuro, was the first to suggest the Bible and wrote: “I often think

about those Marshallese who never graduated from college, but were responsible for

translating the Bible to Marshallese language. They did a great job in translating a

comprehensive piece of writing to our language.” There was some debate amongst my

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family members about where to find the original translators until Jack, a former Peace

Corp Volunteer, wrote “The Bibles here never list who translated, I've looked, I have one

that goes back to the 1970's. Too bad because that bible is so well written, so tight

language-wise--it must have taken some highly sophisticated people to put it together

and thoroughly edit it.” My cousin Sherwood responded to this statement by writing, “Well,

they did it in a time when men sailed thousands of miles without navigational instruments;

predict weather for up to weeks in advance; knew that "kajur wot wor" well before other

civilizations realized that "unification is power..."so yea, I agree with Jack that there

must've been some highly sophisticated people who helped translate the Bible.”

Both Daisy, Jack, and Sherwood articulate the admiration many people have for

the first translators who did not have the luxury of schooling and yet possessed the

intelligence to translate a comprehensive work of literature into a completely different

language and culture. What arises from the above conversation not only supports my

argument that the Bible is one of the most well-known Marshallese texts – but also that

the contributions of the Marshallese in the process of the translation was clearly

overlooked. Years later here we are, debating over social media about who could possibly

have contributed hours of detailed and thorough translations to provide the Marshallese

with the text which has had the biggest influence on our culture.

Unlike the rest of the Pacific, the introduction of missionaries to the Marshallese

was relatively late. Marshallese had attained a fierce reputation as violent, and so many

ships stayed away from the islands from the early 1500s to the early 1600s (Walsh 2012,

125). The first missionaries that the Marshallese were introduced to was through Captain

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Ichabod Handy. Handy had been trading for some time with Marshallese and wrote of

their peaceful interactions. He offered to transport a Reverend Dr. George Pierson to his

assignment at the newly established mission in Kosrae, with a brief stop and introduction

in the Marshall Islands. This resulted in the establishment of the Protestant mission. It

was not until 1855 that Dr. Pierson negotiated and gained the permission of Chief Kaibuke

to establish a mission on Ebon. In 1857, the first group made up of George and Nancy

Pierson, Edward and Sarah Doane, and Hawaiian missionary Hezekiah Aea sailed

aboard the ship Morning Star to make their home on the atoll of Ebon. This historical

moment was mentioned earlier by both Willie Mwekto and Nickson David as a roro.

Mwekto performed and translated a part of the roro for me – he explained that the roro

focused on how the Marshallese not only welcomed these missionaries but helped pull in

the ship themselves. A part of the chant he performed is actually explained in Etto gan

Etto. Apparently Kaibuke’s followers chanted, “Gijir Tomede Eo,” as they pulled on a big

rope tied to the ship, welcoming the missionaries. Alele sources explain that “Gijir Tomede

Eo” is chanted to memorialize the initial coming of Christianity to the Marshall Islands,

and also symbolizes energized and loyal friendship (Walsh 2012, 138).

This event is also recorded in Tobin’s collection through a parable or prophecy

as told by Jobel Emos of Kwajalein in 1975. The parable/prophecy tells the story of a

triton, a type of conch shell, and a tattler, a type of bird. The conch shell asks the bird to

fly around the Marshall Islands. As they fly, they sing and prophesize of a coming “light.”

e sang, “Kidid, kidid, ukokcj fa/ Ukokcj raan eo. Ukokcj raan eo/ Raan eo, raan jeeded

eo, raan hweeded eo/Raan eo epsdtok ilikin fa in ia in ke?/Ilikin Mile O-O. (Ijuweo)”

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(Tobin 2002, 157). According to Emos, the meaning of the song can be translated to

“Tattler, tattler, turn over (discover) the rock pile to find the light./Turn over the dawn, turn

over the dawn./The dawn it is dawn already (jeeded eo) / The dawn is the color of sunrise/

The dawn is here on the ocean side of where….?/ On the ocean side Mile O-O. (Over

there)” (Tobin 2002, 157). It was after singing this song that the Morning Star ship arrived.

Emos explained to Tobin that the triton was a metaphor for the gospel because of its

gleaming shell while the tattler represented the Morning Star, which carried the gospel

(Tobin 2002, 157-158).

This story by Emos reveals the initial welcoming reaction of Marshallese to the

missionaries. Rather than an interaction of war and violence, the missionaries were

welcomed with open arms. As we will see from the writing accounts of Hezekiah Aea and

Doane, this was also reflected in their reaction towards the new religion as well as the act

of reading and writing. From what I could find in the letters at Hawaii Mission House

Museum, both Doane and Aea were chiefly responsible for the first printing and

translation of Marshallese language. The first appearance of printing is in a letter from

Doane to a Reverand C.W. Clark on June 12, 1860:

I send you copies of your printing during the past year. We have printed a primary book and new hymns. The book we are beginning to use already….I need hardly ask your opinion of the worth of these books to us. We esteem them more than silver and gold.

From this account we can make a few observations: the first printing that the rimajel

interacts with seems to be a primary book and a book of hymns. We also see the

importance of the written word to the missionaries who find the prints valuable, “more

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than silver and gold.” Doane continues for another few paragraphs discussing the

importance of attaining a printing press and how this is necessary for all missionary work.

Another interesting line is where he writes “Our hymns are a great pleasure to us, one or

two can read them, and many, children especially, can repeat the hymns.” This reminded

me of the traditional form of learning that Marshallese received and was written about by

Erdland later – the act of listening and repetition. It would make sense that rimajel had no

trouble listening and learning this new knowledge.

While Doane takes the lead in printing and translating the texts from English to

Marshallese, it is the Hawaiian missionary Aea who takes up the task of teaching students

reading and writing. In a letter which he began writing in August 27, 1860 and ends on

June 8, 1861, Aea records his experience and his progression:

Aug 27. Began my teaching the language of this island. On that day I taught the children letters. The language of this island is hard, unlike the language of Apaiang. Some words of that place resemble a little the Hawaiian language, but the language of Ebon here does not resemble at all the Hawaiian language, so I have trouble in teaching the words of the old-timers of this island, but we are not discouraged in teaching the language….I have taught the children the local alphabet [here he gives some examples of the local language].” Here we see that Aea was actually struggling with the language. The language of

“Apaiang” that he compares to Hawaiian language could be one of the languages spoken

in the other islands in Micronesia where they had settled previously. Here is also the first

written mention of a “local alphabet.” Unfortunately, I was reading a translated version of

the letter so I did not have a chance to look at what was the examples of the “local

language”.

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We learn more about the reactions of Marshallese to reading in a second letter on

August 22, 1861, when we see the appearance of another section of the Bible - the Book

of Matthew:

There were in the house some twenty youth. No sooner did they see the new sheets – than there was a universal call, one for me – one for me- and getting them down they sat around my table and another small lamp on the floor. And directly there was the murmur of all these voices reading readily what we had printed and they had not before seen. Some new letters they had not before seen balked them somewhat, but these they soon mastered – and then read right along like good American readers. We have now about one hundred children and youth and young men and women – who all read something we have printed – and about fifty, reader of those portions of the Bible we have printed. At the end of the island where we live all the children and youth are readers, and have got along so far we have closed this school for four days in the week.

The reaction of the Marshallese as recorded by Doane is one of appreciation and

awe, as well as an eagerness to read. Doane’s comparison of Marshallese readers to

“good American readers” is condescending, but nonetheless portrays how well the

Marshallese were reading already. Also, we get a ball park figure of the amount of

Marshallese at the time who were reading – about “one hundred children and youth and

young men and women.” Interesting to note here is how most of the population is the

youth who are taking up this new act – and also that there is equal gender inclusion –

women, as well men, were reading.

I was surprised by these accounts – it is clear from Doane and Aea’s observations

that Marshallese did not resist this new form of learning. In fact, from the missionaries’

observations, they embraced it and seemed to enjoy it. Their acceptance could be

because of a number of reasons: it could be because it was simply a novelty, something

foreign and exotic to the rimajel. It also might have been that rimajel were and are

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naturally curious and inquisitive, and appreciated gaining a new form of knowledge. Some

credit could also be given to the persistence and what seems to be the mild manners of

these missionaries – they didn’t seem to try and establish too many laws, not until a few

years later, and they also seemed to have established comfortable relationships with

members of the community. It should also be noted that the missionaries emphasized

kajin majel, Marshallese language, rather than English language. This showed some

savvy and understanding on their part – it was much easier to communicate and to teach

their new religion since they prioritized the local language over their own. Either way, the

rimajel didn’t seem to be co-opted or forced into this new tradition in any way. On the

contrary – they welcomed it with open arms.

However the ultimate question still has yet to be answered: who were the

Marshallese who helped translate the original Bible into the Marshallese language? I was

able to find the answer in a section of the first letter that referenced teaching the

Marshallese students. On December 21, Aea wrote, “Mr. Doane and I began the printing

of the Bible in the language of this island, the translation being done by Mr. Doane and

he and I making the corrections.” This seems to be the only reference, and the earliest

reference, that I could find to my question of who initially translated the Bible to the

Marshallese language: it was Doane and Aea. And, according to their letters, they had no

specific Marshallese informants assisting them. Either Doane or Aea learned the

language from living in the community, and so they had no need for a specific teacher, or

they had a specific teacher but did not feel that he or she was important enough to include

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in their letters. Ultimately, this was a disappointing answer to my question, and will remain

a mystery until some other form of evidence is found.

Marshallese Written Literature: Prolific Protests and Preservation

We Marshallese have used pandanus sticks to tell the stories of the ocean. We

have carved our lineage into our skin, used coconut fronds to depict our familial values,

and we have used our voices to propel canoes and connect to the spirits. With the

introduction of the pen, the pencil, the alphabet, as well as a new language, we

Marshallese embarked into the modern age of expression: the written word.

We Marshallese continued to use the written word for the same purposes we used

stickcharts and bwebwenato: for preservation. One of the earliest texts which

demonstrates this is an article written by one of the interviewees – Alfred Capelle. His

article is not only evidence of preservation but also of cultural reflection. The article was

published in the Micronesian Reporter in 1977, entitled “Marshallese Narrative: The

Effects of Change (Alfred 1977, 19).” This article was especially applicable to this

portfolio, in that it allowed me to see how another Marshallese would conceptualize and

reflect on our oral traditions. In this article, Alfred expressed concern about safeguarding

our oral traditions from extinction, which is puts issues of preservation today in

perspective when you consider that this concern was articulated as early as 1977. “The

people of the Marshall Islands are seriously concerned about the preservation of their

tradition and culture and are taking advantage of all possible resources, such as print,

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tape-recording, etc., to ensure such preservation” (Alfred 1977, 19). Alfred admits, just as

he had earlier, that relying on the written word is necessary to ensure that this type of

knowledge would not die out. It is significant that he also mentions tape recordings –

which is a reflection of the times since video recording was not yet widely used.

In the rest of the article, Alfred focuses on his observations of a roro expert

performing the entire ikid. Much of what he observes were echoed in my interviews as

well. “In talking with the chanter, we observed that the old man is sad at the prospect of

Marshallese culture inevitably being lost under too strong a foreign influence,” he writes,

but takes a positive note in the next paragraph. “On the other hand, however, it is

heartening to know that no foreign influence has yet infiltrated Marshallese life to the

extent where the more precious and important chants, legends, and so on have been

affected by the interjection of foreign, or alien words into them” (Alfred 1977, 19).

I found this observation to be heartening. It is true that foreign words are

still relatively rare in most of the bwebwenato and roro that have been preserved. This

ensures that listening to roro or bwebwenato is to listen to a time before the foreigners –

the oral tradition becomes a capsule in a sense, a vehicle for traveling back in time.

The most applicable part of his article were his observations on taking the chant

from the performance to the recording to the actual text itself. Apparently, Alfred faced a

number of the same problems as I did when trying to translate the oral tradition into

writing. “For example, there are some Marshallese sounds that are not translatable into

the Roman alphabet system, and we constantly have to compromise the orthography in

order to get the words into written form.” However, he also admits that, “Although the

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tape recorded version leaves much to be desired, it is far better than the written version.”

He concedes to inevitable differences between hearing and reading a chant – in the end,

having a recording is much more effective than writing. “The chant is most effective in the

oral-aural channel, and least effective in the written-visual channel” (Alfred 1977, 21). This

line felt like a confirmation for my reasoning of not reproducing some of the chants that I

had heard. I also appreciated his note that “the teaching and learning of the chants in the

Marshallese schools and homes will be implemented through a live, rather than a solely

technological channel so that the appropriate and meaningful gestures, for example,

might also be preserved” (Alfred 1977, 21).

Alfred’s article is a specific case of writing being used as an act of reflection as well

as cultural preservation – a dominant theme in much of my conversations on Marshallese

orality. This is reflected once again in a children’s book published by former Minister of

Education Nidel Lorak, as mentioned earlier. Naan Ko Rcyne was originally published

only one year after Alfred’s article in 1978 by the department of Education while the

Marshall Islands was still under Trust Territory in 1979.

The book itself is thirty seven pages of jabonkonnaan and bwebwenato, all with

colorful illustrations indicative of a children’s book, and written entirely in Marshallese.

The front cover of the book is aesthetically interesting – below the title is actually a

collection of jabonkonaan in the form of a stick chart. It not only uses a cultural symbol,

but it repurposes that symbol by using written text. If we follow my earlier observation of

a stick chart being another example of visual literacy before traditional text, then this cover

page becomes layer upon layer of visual literacy.

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The book is written entirely in Marshallese, and the while many of the

jabonkonnaan focus on customs, it also has quite a few sections on appropriate children’s

behavior. For example, on page 4 there is a picture of a boy sitting on the shoulders of a

man with the title being “AJIRI IN LO AERAAR.” The word “aeraar” refers to touching

shoulders. Below this title is a section which says, “Ajri in irooj. Ajri in irooj ro im ilo an ro

rej bok er rej door wot er nai ioon aeraer. Ajri in irooj wot ekkar bwe ren jijet ioon aeran

armej ne rej bok er, ak kojamboik er ekkar nan mantin Majel” (Lorak 1978, 4). Loosely

translated, this paragraph is basically stating that only the children of the Irooj, the chiefs,

are allowed to be seated on the shoulders of the people, and that it is not culturally

appropriate for other children to do so.

Naan Ko Rcyne is important it is also one of the earliest children’s book to be

written and published by a rimajel. The act of writing again becomes a tool for cultural

preservation. It is also a fusion of tradition and modernity. Tradition, because of its

emphasis on jabonkonaan and the use of Marshallese language, culture, and customs,

and modernity, because of its packaging as a children’s book and utilizing a primarily

western tool of learning.

While the purpose of the previous forms of expression was mainly for preservation,

the written word provided another medium for a new purpose: protest. Before I begin

analyzing a few of these texts, it would be useful to understand the historical events which

surrounded and influenced these texts – the most applicable of which was the testing of

nuclear weapons conducted by the United States from June 30, 1946 to August 18, 1958.

During that time, the United States tested a total of 67 nuclear tests, the most powerful of

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which was the “Bravo” shot which was the equivalent of 1,000 Hiroshima bombs.

Islanders from Bikini, Enewetak, and Rongelap were all displaced because of the

program, and our people continue to suffer the numerous consequences from the

radiation and contamination of our islands. Writing during this time became a critical tool

against the nuclear testing program, and against the many injustices we rimajel were

forced to face. The first text that I would like to examine is one written by my uncle Dwight

Heine, who was thirty four years old at the time and was also the Superintendent of

Elementary Schools in the Marshalls as well as a representative in the House of Assembly

in the Marshall Islands Congress. He became the principal draftsman of the petition

submitted to the UN regarding the nuclear testing (303). After it was written, he went to

Washington where the petition was heard on July 7, 1954.

In this petition, Heine begins by first introducing himself and his background. He

begins by showing how schooling was something he had grown up with: “My parents were

my first teachers,” and by emphasizing where he went to school, and how he came by

much of his education through scholarships and studies in New Zealand, Samoa, and Fiji.

By choosing to begin this petition this way, it emphasizes his genealogy of education,

shows his credibility as a leader amongst his community, and forces his audience to come

to know him as a human being.

His petition also subtly portrays his experience of colonization, and how little

control he had in his life at times because of these intruding forces. “Upon finishing this

school I was sent back to the Marshalls to teach in the school there at the one I previously

attended. My teaching career was interrupted after one year when I was recruited by the

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Japanese to work in a phosphate pit. I spent almost all of the war years digging phosphate

rocks with picks and shovels,” he writes (Heine 1954, 1). After being forced to dig rocks

instead of pursue his teaching, the Americans came, and once again his work was

influenced by the surrounding colonizers. This time, he word for the United States Navy

Military Government as an interpreter. He uses this section to remind his audience that it

was the Marshallese who willingly assisted the Americans during times of war. Without

their help, their work would not have been as effective.

The Marshallese people were a very warlike people less than a hundred years ago, but since then – after Christianization and educated by American missionaries – we have laid down our arms and never picked them up since. During this time we have known of only one murder case and that was over thirty years ago. (Heine 1954) Rather than just telling his audience that rimajel are a peaceful people, Heine

skillfully inserts facts about our history - how we “evolved” from a warlike people to a

peaceful people who have never had a murder case. By taking the time to emphasize this

point, Heine paints the picture of a peaceful people who are bewildered by the horrific

consequences of the nuclear testing program. The most telling section of his statement,

however, is when he compares how strict Americans were with their laws for something

as small as firecrackers, and yet how careless they were with a nuclear weapon.

I have noticed that it is illegal to set off fire-crackers in New York to celebrate the Fourth of July. I read in the paper that several people were arrested for violating this safety rule. The H-bomb is a “super-fire-cracker” which needs “super safety rules” (Heine 1954). By comparing the way Americans dealt with firecrackers in New York to how they

dealt with the H-bomb in the Marshall Islands, Heine is subtly pointing out that there was

not enough awareness with how they handled those weapons when it was used in foreign

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territory. Obviously, lives in one location mattered more than the other. He ends his

statement by driving home the fact that the Marshallese do not agree with the testing, and

also holds his audience responsible for the next steps that need to be taken. His language

throughout his statement is unfailingly polite, understanding and, once again, subtle. He

is not here to start a war with the US – he merely wants them to take responsibility for

their actions and “to be a little more careful.” His allusion to the fire crackers in this city

he had never been to was an attempt to connect with his audience, while also shaming

them. If this city’s government was vigilant on restrictions over something as small as a

firecracker, then really they had no excuse for being so callous and irresponsible with a

nuclear bomb.

Uncle Dwight’s cousin, Carl Heine (known to our family as Uncle Lan) would later

use the act of writing to capture a turning point in the Marshall Islands history – when the

country is considering independence, free association with the United States, or

remaining a part of Micronesia after becoming a Trust Territory following the events of

World War II. Heine published the first, and so far only book by a Marshallese - Micronesia

at the Crossroads (Heine 1974).

This book covers a period of major political upheaval. The “Micronesian Dilemma”

was one that concerned both Micronesian and American leaders as well as leaders from

the United Nations. In this book, Heine outlines the colonized history of Micronesia and

analyses the different factors to consider regarding the political status of our islands.

Should the region be unified as a whole, disregarding the differences in culture and

language? Should the region be independent or become another colony of the United

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States? What are the benefits and the drawbacks from having these different political

status’? What do Micronesians as a people desire? What are their hopes and fears for

their future?

In the preface, he addresses the discrepancies between the oral tradition most

Marshallese grow up with and the body of literature produced by outsiders and

Westerners based on their own ideas of his region:

And I came to realize that the Micronesia of oral tradition and the Micronesia of the written literature are not the same and that, although the assessment of the "outside observer" was nice to have, most of the time it was not a true reflection of the real Micronesia I thought I knew. (Heine 1974, preface)

What is interesting to note here is the division Heine creates between the

Micronesia of oral tradition and the literature of Micronesia. The Micronesia of oral

tradition is one that he knows, one that is the “real” Micronesia. The Micronesia of the

written literature, however, is made up by outside observers, not Micronesians. Ultimately,

Micronesian literature is foreign literature – not Micronesian at all. Which is an interesting

observation coming from a writer who identifies as Micronesian.

Heine spends the rest of the book discussing a Micronesia that was fraught with

political problems and clashing ideals. He saw the status of independence for Micronesia

as a lofty construct of American idealism – one that was not plausible for Micronesians.

“Americans are part of a society lucky enough to be "born free"; a society that did not

have to struggle against the weight of attitudes, values and institutions that accompany

traditional societies” (Heine 1974, 45). What are these institutions that he speaks of? He

directly names this hierarchy in a later chapter: “Who will benefit the most if Micronesia

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should become independent now? Obviously, it will be the traditionalists, the landed

paramount chiefs. Independence is considered by them to mean a Micronesia as it was

in the past” (Heine 1974, 50) Heine is alluding to the fact that one of the sole reasons why

independence is not a viable option is because it will only benefit a small privileged group,

and that independence and freedom will not be achieved just by changing the political

status of a country. As Heine comes from a non-chiefly family, this critique seems all the

more personal.

Besides this, he also mentions numerous times that one of the main problems with

striving for independence is the fact that Micronesia is a region – not one single entity.

"As an entity carved out of the Pacific Ocean by Westerners, unity and harmony have not

come easily to these people, who have pride in each of their respective cultures” (Heine

1974, 75). Here Heine’s writing reflects some of the resentment that many islanders share

– a resentment of being forced into a grouping and a category even though our cultures

are so different.

Another factor that Heine considers is the limited resources of these islands. He is

against independence – not only because of what he sees as false promise and hope,

but also because he sees it as impossible for the islands to survive without outside

assistance. But what does surviving mean exactly? How have these islands survived on

their own without foreign aid for so many years? Shouldn’t a subsistent lifestyle based on

the land and the sea be enough? No, says Heine. "The few who are living on a pure

subsistence economy are doing so by necessity rather than by choice” (Heine 1974, 60).

Heine’s analysis lacks any of the romanticism which many outside scholars and new

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Pacific Island scholars tend to lean towards. A subsistence lifestyle, while attractive to

those who haven’t lived it, is not one that is easy or luxurious. It is also amazing that Heine

has the foresight to acknowledge that this will not be changing anytime soon. “The

revolution of rising expectations in Micronesia today is unparalleled in all its history (Heine

1974, 68),” he writes, and this rising expectation has continued to grow into today.

On the other hand, however, his lack of faith in the resources of Micronesia

demonstrates the kind of thinking which Epeli Hau’ofa has written against in his essay

Our Sea of Islands – the kind of thinking which has been influenced by colonialist,

westernized, and globalized perspectives. Heine quotes Samuel T. Coleridge when he

writes “The dwarf sees farther than the giant, when he has the giant's shoulder to mount

on.” Obviously he sees Micronesia as the dwarf and the United States as the giant. In this

statement alone, we see how Heine views the power differences between the two

countries, and why he pushes for a freely associated status with the United States.

This is not to say that Heine is not critical of the United States and the way the

government administered the islands.

Lack of foresight and unimaginative policies has caused more harm to America's reputation than anything else. Prior to the creation of the Congress of Micronesia, the administration had consistently refused to allow Micronesian participation in the overall planning for Micronesia. (Heine 1974, 73)

Heine directly critiques the administration for not including Micronesians in the

planning process, and states that while much of the problem does have to do with

Micronesians themselves – the beginning stages of issues stems from the United States’

inability to work with those they were governing.

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This book is rich with different perspectives and critiques – not only of the United

States but also of Micronesian leaders and the Micronesian culture. Heine does not sugar

coat nor does he romanticize the Micronesian cultures. He is adamant about considering

the realistic possibilities of economy and what true political freedom would look like.

Although many of his views might be seen as dated, it is nonetheless a realistic and

honest portrayal of one Marshallese leader as he struggles to understand and find

solutions for the future of his people.

To date, Micronesia at the Crossroads still remains the only book written in its

entirety by a Marshallese. However, there have been a number of books published in the

past 10 years which have been the result of collaborations between Marshallese writers

and outside scholars. These collaborations have garnered considerable publications –

the purposes of most of these publications are not necessarily for protest, but once again

are meant mostly for preservation, if not just simply storytelling and expression. They

reflect a population that has grown comfortable with the written word enough to tell their

stories. This population, however, is not fully comfortable just yet, reflected by the fact

that most of these projects were spearheaded by foreigners collaborating with one or

more Marshallese.

Mour Ilo Republic eo an Marshall or Life in the Republic of the Marshall Islands

(2006) is a collection of essays. The text is available (as indicated by the titles) in both

Marshallese and English versions, and was published by the University of the South

Pacific. As the cover states, it was “written by Marshall Islanders” and edited by Anono

Lioem Loeak, Veronica C. Kiluwe, and Linda Crowl. Translations were done by Veronica

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C. Kiluwe, Maria Kabua Fowler, and Alson J. Kelen. This collection includes seventeen

first-hand stories and essays written by Marshallese, and includes the perspectives of

government workers, NGO and canoe training experts, Irooj and Leroij (male and female

chiefs) amongst others. The collection was published in 2004, commemorating and

marking 25 years since the Constitution of the Marshall Islands was enacted. The essays,

edited by Linda Crowl, a former Peace Corps volunteer to the Marshall Islands, cover a

wide range of topics including women’s organizations, Marshallese legends, preserved

pandanus, the emergence of mission schools, adoption services, Rongelap nuclear

survivors, and the importance of land and canoes.

Emlain Kudo Kabua, former first Lady to the RMI who was married to former

President and High Chief Amata Kabua, was interviewed by her daughter Maria Kabua

Fowler, and her life story was included in the essay “Kwo ke’e Nan am Detake Ian? Or

Are You Ready to be the Wife of an Iroij” (Kabua and Fowler, 72)? Kabua remembers

being pledged to Amata from her birth, and her training as a lerooj. “It was not easy

growing up with worwor an iroij because I always had to mind my manners, to learn all

the crafts, to serve the iroij the best food, and to act properly, within mantin Majol. If I

accompanied iroij, I had to walk behind, with my head bowed, and not look around…If

people said hurtful things, I could only answer only politely…My training stood me in good

stead for our very public life that was to follow” (Kabua and Fowler, 73). This very personal

account of Kabua is one that has yet to be heard or written about by most rimajel and

especially by outsiders. The life of a lerooj is generally shrouded in secrets and rumors.

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For a lerooj to come out and openly discuss her life in a public written document is

incredibly monumental and important.

This collection is important because it prioritizes Marshallese voices, stories and

perspectives. It also leaves room for current struggles, and adapting cultural practices,

allowing the authors to decide for themselves what kinds of stories they’d like to be

remembered for. The collection would also not have been as successful if Crowl hadn’t

collaborated with Loeak, who is a lerooj in her own right and who is also a vocal advocate

and community organizer for women’s organizations. Loeak is also currently the first Lady

of the Marshall Islands.

Another recent publication as a result of a collaboration is Traditional Medicines of

the Marshall Islands: The Women, the Plants and the Treatment or Uno in Aelcg in Majcl:

Kcrs Ro, Mar in Uno Ko, Uno Ko. This was written by Irene J. Taafaki, Maria Kabua

Fowler, and Randolph R. Thaman in 2006 and was also published by USP.

Traditional Marshallese herbal medicine is an ancient knowledge that is practiced

by a select few families. This knowledge tends to be heavily guarded in secrecy and

passed down only to the next of kin. With this collection, we finally see some of these

secrets revealed, in both Marshallese and English. It discusses the importance of these

medicinal practitioners, the rules and taboos which come with these traditions, and also

examines the role these medicines play particularly in women’s health and women’s roles.

Besides essays which explain the history behind the herbal practice, it also includes

detailed tables charting which plants are applicable to certain ailments. It also has color

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photographs of specific plants, displaying its name, describing its characteristics, and its

uses.

In this collection we once again encounter Kabua-Fowler, who, like the previous

collection, contributed from her position as the daughter of Irooj and first President Kabua.

Her second last name (Fowler) came from the American Peace Corps volunteer whom

she married. It is important to note that as the daughter of an Irooj, Fowler had access

and rights to certain knowledges which other women or informants might not have been

able to claim.

In the preface, Fowler begins by quoting the Marshall Islands Constitution and

writes that “We, today, still give thanks and credit to our forefathers whose knowledge

and contributions have made our people excel in, amongst other things, the identification

and usage of the plants they found on these remote and tiny islands” (Fowler 2006, vii).

It is also significant to note that oral tradition, specifically chants, are referenced multiple

times within this collection, due to its healing powers.

“Chants play an integral role in Marshallese traditional medicine, albeit one that is

less talked about… Used alone, chants can be powerful” (Taafaki, Kabua Fowler,

Thaman, 2006, 8). Chants are not only important for carrying tradition and preserving

knowledge but for its literal healing power as well.

I include this collection because of the fact that the majority of its success is due

to the contributions of a Marshallese woman. It is also another example of a Marshallese

using text to preserve traditional knowledge for future generations.

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Writing need not serve a specific purpose however – sometimes it can just be a

way to play with language and to tell a story. For the past few years, the Journal has

published separate instalments of poetry written by Cent Langdrik. I have a copy of all the

poems he had given to the Journal. The manuscript, clearly typed using a type writer,

totals twenty poems, all in Marshallese, using different styles and lengths. What is

interesting about Langdrik’s poetry is that it utilizes the western form of sonnet for many

of its pieces, and that it also reflects an author who is merely having fun with language.

One of my favourite is a personification piece named “Jet Ek” which loosely translated

means “A Few Fish”. The first line is “Ewcr juon ek, etan in kupag“ which can be loosely

translated to mean “There was a fish whose name was kupag.” Kupag is a type of well-

known Marshallese fish. The next line is “Ehhan kilin, ak ejaje jipag,” which means “[the

fish] had nice skin, but wasn’t very helpful.” The two lines are humorous and charming to

hear because the end words rhyme in Marshallese, and also because it is appealing to

hear human characteristics being assigned to an animal – and a very critical characteristic

as well. The next line is, “Juon bar ek, etan in bwebwe” means “Another fish whose name

is bwebwe” which is again an actual, commonly eaten fish, followed by the line Ga idike,

bwe ej bag a bwebwe” which means “I don’t like him/it because they are crazy.” This time,

Langdrik plays with the word “bwebwe” which means crazy but is also the name of a fish.

Besides Langdrik’s playfulness, much of his poetry also reflects an understanding

of Marshallese familial values. “Al Eo An Juon Om” is a sonnet about a hermit crab

lamenting the loss of his mother, “Kcjatdikdik Eo” is the tragic story of a loving older

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brother, the sole provider for his siblings, who passes away and leaves his younger

siblings grief stricken and hungry.

What is interesting to note about Langdrik’s style of poetry is that he tends to use

use western forms - specifically sonnets. At some point down the line, I hope that there

might be some way to formally publish Langdrik’s collection of poetry. It is not only a

useful way of encouraging other Marshallese writers, but might also be of use in writing

courses in schools – it would allow Marshallese to see, read, and hear a very Marshallese

voice.

Al in Aelon Kein is so far the only published collection of poetry written by those

living in the Marshalls. While it includes a number of outsiders, three quarters of the

selections are Marshallese. The collection was published by the Micronitor in February of

2005 by P.K. Harmon, a former theatre and humanities professor from the College of the

Marshall Islands who had spent seven years in the Marshalls. In the intro Harmon asks a

question that has actually been plaguing me since I started writing: “Is anyone interested

in poetry in the Marshall Islands?”

Apparently so. Harmon put out a call for submission and Marshallese poets

responded. The entirety of the selections are poetry written in English – though there are

two selections which are in broken/pidgin Marshallese/English. Michelle Kramer, who’s

noted as a “jetsetter who splits her time between New Zealand, Hawaii, and the Marshalls,

submitted two pieces – “We Jus Dibberent” and “Me Forgive.” “We Jus Dibberent” was

particularly interesting:

Borever be in lobe wit my people We no good sbeak englis but we dry

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Me wand do bwebwenato to you But blease don’t be madd Me only dry rrite boetry Me not bwebwe bwguase me no good sbeak englis Me learn jiddik englis and me dry sbell I sorray ib you no can understand me U dry sbeak and rrite my languase I bet you mighd strug gal But me understand you one ribelle We all C-Mart only broblem is cannot sbeak same Languase Me like say dat we just dibberent Blease blease understand me komool tata (Kramer 2005, 15)

Kramer seeks to embody the voice of a Marshallese who isn’t fluent in English,

and yet still yearns to have a voice and to have a say in this collection. The character she

embodies admits to his or her faults, and yet also takes a stab at the reader when he/she

states “U dry sbeak and rrite my languase/ I bet you mighd strug gal.”

Kitene Kare, who’s noted as a worker for Continental Marshall Islands, starts off

the collection with her piece entitled “I Hate You”:

I will always love you he said. Each time I remember these words I see red- red pandanus red bananas red everything like a whore’s suffering chamber. His betrayal dragged my soul – there I sat

Not caring yet caring As the wind wept upon my back. The words I will Always love you like a mocking. I groomed my soul of its flaws To give to you. You colored it With ashes and dipped it in tuna oil. (Kare 2005, 1)

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I found this piece interesting because of the specific imagery: the red pandanus,

the red bananas, and also her soul colored by ashes and dipped in tuna oil. Her use of

these images of ashes and tuna oil reflects how her soul has been soiled by the

relationship. And yet these images – ashes, tuna oil, red pandanus, and red bananas –

are decidedly Marshallese experiences.

Marshallese have used writing to convey experiences such as heartbreak through

images like those above. We have told our history to American audiences as a way of

confronting their government for their thoughtless actions and as an act of defiance and

protest. We have told our stories to anthropologists in order to preserve knowledge that

could be lost. In short, we as a people have used, and continue to use literature and

writing to serve our own needs and purposes. Whether for purposes of preservation, or

as a form of resistance against colonialism, writing has a long and rich history amongst

my people. What is interesting to note as well is who the dominant writers are – most of

them were of mixed ancestry – both Marshallese and European. Others were of chiefly

descent. Most were male. Here I am reminded of Van Toorn, who wrote that, “Each act

of reading and writing is carried out in a particular political and historical context in which

the powerful decide which practices are to be counted as correct and normal, and which

will be declared erroneous and insignificant” (Van Toorn 2006, 45). While most of these

writers are not going so far as to declare what is erroneous and insignificant, it is

worthwhile to acknowledge that the history of Marshallese writing tends to arise from

privilege.

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However, this history is not, by any means, a complete and full survey of all the

literature written by Marshallese – it has not considered the national anthem which was

written by Emlain Kudo Kabua, the capstone projects which have been self-published by

seniors graduating from CMI, nor does it include the numerous children’s books published

through the RMI Ministry of Education. My mother Hilda Heine’s dissertation "Tuwaak

bwe elimaajnono": Perspectives and voices. A multiple case study of successful

Marshallese Immigrant High School Students in the United States is the first and only

dissertation written by a Marshallese, and is also not included in this history. Much like

the gaps between the sticks of the stick charts, there are definitely some gaps within this

history. However, what I attempted here was merely the first initial step towards a history

of Marshallese writing.

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CHAPTER 4

IEP JSLTOK: CONTINUING THE LEGACY

Woman is a basket. Iep jeltok. This is an old Marshallese jabcnkcnaan, and applies

well for this next section – my collection of poems. Iep jeltok signifies the importance of

female children to the Marshallese culture. When a female child is born, we say “Iep jeltok

ajiri ne.” We say that you are fortunate to have a daughter. Daughters inherit the land, the

titles, and the clans from their mother, and pass these on to their children. Daughters stay

with their families – they give birth to a new line and they also look after their parents in

their old age. They are the ones who retain the history, culture, and customs that have

been instilled in them. They are the basket whose opening, whose offering, faces towards

their family – not away from their family like sons (Iep jeltak), who generally leave their

families and go with the families of their wives instead. I like to imagine the baskets the

women in my family offered before me – what they each gave to their family with love,

laughter, tears. What kinds of stories did they have to tell? What did their baskets look

like? What was their offering? And what about me? What do I have to offer?

This entire portfolio, as well as this poetry, is a small part of what I have to offer.

Some of this poetry are inspired by stories I have inherited. Some are completely new

stories. Ultimately, these are stories of preservation, stories that are meant to preserve a

tiny prism of how I, a Marshallese girl living in 2014, sees the world around me. It is

definitely a misshapen basket of stories. It is an intricate, layered, worn-out and frayed

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basket. It is sun-burnt and poorly made – by someone whose hands are still getting used

to the cracked fronds beneath her fingertips.

This collection reflects traditional Marshallese bwebwenato and roro. This means

the story itself is at the heart of each piece. Each poem is a narrative. The poetry is also

a reflection of roro because it emphasizes sounds, the way the words are shaped by our

mouths and by repetition. It is performed, and meant to be spoken out loud, not just

silently read. It exists not just for the page, but for a stage.

Which brings about another style that has influenced this collection. Spoken word.

Spoken word was my introduction to the interaction between an audience and a poet –

that collective, shared space, so reminiscent of storytelling, yet reflecting a new, urban

sense of knowing. Spoken word is nitty gritty – it is in your face, it doesn’t apologize. It is

brash, young, and loud. It sounds more like the Oakland bass bumping, it runs breathless

across concrete streets. It is not delicate. Spoken word is also what inspired me to begin

this journey, to start to investigate our oral traditions, and the lineage of writing that came

before me.

And since so much of this poetry is inspired by those traditions, it means this poetry

is also old. It is the history of our islands – the way I see our history unfolding first through

Liktagur, Liwstuonmour, and Lidepdepju, then missionaries and the wars, then nuclear

testing, colonization, which means these are also poetry of protest. It is a history which

reflects the research I have conducted for this portfolio - the documents, books, archives

which I rummaged through, as well as the elders I interviewed and talked story with. It is

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a history that writes against the dominant narrative that tells us we are bystanders, we

are weak, we are non-existent.

This poetry is my form of healing. It strips off the festering, rotten bandages that

have been lashed around wounds. It lets those wounds breathe and heal beneath the

sun. It gives it the space to grow and to understand, to change, to become whole once

more. It is my attempt at healing myself, healing my community through stories that need

to be shared, need to be spoken. Sometimes this means sharing stories which are painful.

Stories which are meant first and foremost for an ignorant audience – an audience that

remains clueless about a people in the middle of the ocean who still compares the

strength of a woman’s voice to the splitting crack of lighting, a people still struggling with

the aftermath of nuclear testing and colonization and a bleak future of debts, globalization

and climate change. Perhaps, by creating this dialogue, that audience can give us the

due space we deserve in this world. Perhaps by showing our humanity they can

understand us as a people.

This poetry is also for other Marshallese – who are so used to seeing

representations of other people in literature, but never themselves, or their families. It is

my offering.

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Iep jsltok (yiyip jalteq). “a basket whose opening is facing the speaker.” Said of female children. She represents a basket whose contents are made available to her

relatives. Also refers to matrilineal society of the Marshallese. iep jsltok ajiri fe - you are fortunate to have a girl child.

- Marshallese English Dictionary

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My mother once told me girls represent wealth for their families. “Girls continue the lineage.”

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Basket

woman tip your lid across the table

you swell with

offering so much

to offer

earth

of your mother

seeds of your father an ocean of lineage thin strips of leaves the next basket waiting to be

woven

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Basket woman tip your lid towards the table you swell with offering you offer offer offer scrape your floor bare

a vessel? a receptacle

littered with scraps tossed by others i fell asleep dreamt my smile was merely a rim woven into my face

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Liktagur I. jesus might have been a man and so was adam but the sail that powers the Marshallese canoe feeds our family fights our wars claims our land visits clans came from a mother

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II.

1. And so it was that the Irooj’s wife Liktagur gave birth to ten sons who all lived on the island of Woja. 2. One day the sons argued, voices clapping like thunder against the trees. 3. And they said Who will be Irooj of this Island? 4. And the Eldest, Timur, said Why don’t we have a canoe race to the island of Jeh? The first to reach the island will be Irooj, he said. 5. As the brothers lined up on the beach, carved canoes pointed towards a sea swallowing the sun their mother Liktagur walked up to them. 6. And Liktagur struggling with a bundle in her arms asked My son will you take me with you? 7. And Timur looked at the bundle and said Ask my younger brother. 8. And the younger brother said Ask my younger brother who said the same thing. 9. She will only slow me down. 10. And so on. 11. Ask Jebro! The brothers laughed. He is the youngest! He will lose anyway! 12. And Jebro, with his back to the swirling sea, said Yes Mother I will take you with me. 13. As the brothers paddled furious against the salt biting at the wood of their paddles Liktanur, standing on the canoe with her son Jebro, began to unravel the bundle slowly the way the sun unravels its silky rays. 14. And Jebro said, What is that mother? 15. And Liktagur said Behold my Son. 16. This is what shall be called the Mast and the Sail.

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Lidepdepju Let me take you out to see Lidepdepju through overgrown leaves winding breadfruit trees and twisting pandanus we will slap at mosquitoes and red ants that sting our toes will itch from sandy dirt Let me take you to that clearing, follow the voice of the ocean there is Lidepdepju, standing alone deep in water firm in ocean floor between our shore and the next This is our gift for you, Lidepdepju – baskets of fresh bwiro, salted fish. The finest jaki caress basalt calluses of your skin We are here to pay tribute, to ask for your guidance We are here to ask for your strength. Lidedepju we are here

to sharpen our spears

for war.

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Dr. Rife They told me you are a god They call you some funny name that I can’t pronounce So I took your stone body and threw you to the other side of the lagoon. They watched you sink to the depths some cried some fell to their knees some whispered heathen chants beneath their breaths. There - I told them your god is nothing more then a rock.

Luerkolik ej go diun ga duireag

Lidepdepju erbet inij eo

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Juon Wot Emon Below are the lyrics to one of the many songs written by my great-grandfather Jimma Carl Heine while he was living in the Marshall Islands as a missionary. We continue to sing this song today during family gatherings. The left column are the original lyrics in Marshallese while the right column are the lyrics translated to English by my mother. Etolok ilukon lometo Far away over the ocean Eolok wot, ej ber ailin eo emontata Even farther, is the homeland that is best Ijo iar lotak ie Where I was born Ij kememej ijo iar bed ie I remember where I was Ke iar ajiri When I was a child Imweo iturin kiop ko renaj The house by the fragrant lillies Ijo iar lotak ie The house where I was born Alin otemjej renana, Another home is not as good Juon wot emon Only one is the best Jeramen elap ao onkake My friends that I miss Bwe in lo ailin eo ao I can see them in my homeland Kei ij ito-itak ion lol in As I roam the world Ij buromoj I am sad In jeblak non iben ro jatu and want to return to my younger siblings Im on kin ro nuku and yearn for my family Nat inaj ron ainikien jino When will I hear my mother’s voice Kir tok non io, calling to me Nat inaj bar kwelok imnukio When will I see again my family Ilo mweo imo in my own home?

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Etolok ilukon lometo Jimma Carl was a marine garden Etolok wot ej ber aleon eo emontata A culture of aqua hands pruning giant clams barnacled mouths wide open the unblinking eye of the reef watching. Always watching. Ijo iar lotak ie Once German once Australian once a rash and bold current flowing in from the east. Ij kememej ijo iar bed ie, Now father of a harsh tongue, a soggy Bible. Ke iar ajiri, Father of a used canoe Imweo iturin kiop ko renaj, She must have been beautiful. Ijo iar lotak ie. Bubu Arbella was tall straight hair to knees an unclear face a vacant voice Alin otemjej renana What else was she? Where are her wild letters sprouting from sand? Juon wot emon After pushing and pushing and pushing she snapped in two torn open she sprouted wings and Jimma could not find her. Jeramen elap ao onkake. He lost her. Jimma lost his wife. Bwe in lo ailin eo ao. He wandered for a year, searching. Ke ij ito-itak ion lol in. He found Bubu Nenij Ij buromoj, Bubu Nenij was not as beautiful as her sister. In jeblak non iben ro jatu Short thick kinky hair. An unclear face. A vacant voice. Im on kin ro nuku Was she ever afraid that she was just a shadow? Nat inaj ron ainikien jino Of what he lost before? Kir tok no io, Jimma was a used canoe. He heard the call of the other atolls, searching for God. Nat inaj bar kwelok imnukio Bubu was a barnacled mouth. A pair of unblinking reef eyes watching. Ilo mweo imo. Always watching.

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Hooked I. After he felt the rain of bombs that left puddles of silver shrapnel, slivers of splinters where houses once stood and charred bodies – both japanese and marshallese – After he watched soldiers shoot a woman’s ears off because her husband was a deserter, an accused traitor, After he watched his chief, strung up by his ankles, beaten raw for stealing from a dwindling supply of coconuts, After fugitive nights, when fishing was banned, when he’d slip onto the reef flat, breathless, the moon curved, shining like the outlawed fishhook, gripped tight between his fingers And after nights when even this became dangerous, after the children stopped asking for his stolen catch of fish, after even they had withered away, rows of ribs smiling grotesque grins through skin II. After all of that it must have seemed heaven sent a gift from God this gift from the americans, this shining tower of food placed before him box after box after box of canned spam, flaky biscuits chocolate bars, dry sausages, hard candy and

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bags and bags of rice all waiting to be eaten He remembers he cried it was so beautiful III. Every day of the life he led after he remembers that pile of food taller than any building he had ever seen He remembers it as he pops open a can of vienna sausage, savors the salty grease on his warm rice, the taste of a filled belly He remembers it as he slices spam, sizzling hot on the pan, he remembers it as he drizzles soy sauce into a boiling pot of crispy ramen IV. And even after his breathing turns heavy even after his joints protested the walk to the store even after the devious tingle trickled into his arms, even after the doctors told him the leg would have to go, even then he never stopped licking the grease from his fingers that still felt haunted by the outlawed hook. V.

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When his children asked him why he wouldn’t, couldn’t listen, why he kept eating the food his doctors had prescribed against, even after they begged he merely flexed his restless fingers. He had been hungry. He would never be hungry again.

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The letter B is for baah (baham). From Engl. 2(inf, tr -e) 3,4,6(-i). Bomb. Kobaah ke?

Are you contaminated

with radioactive fallout?

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Fishbone Hair I. Inside my niece Bianca’s old room I found two ziplocks stuffed with rolls and rolls of hair dead as a doornail black as a tunnel hair thin as strands of tumbling seaweed Maybe it was my sister who stashed away Bianca’s locks in ziplock bags locked it away so no one could see trying to save that rootless hair that hair without a home II. There had been a war raging inside Bianca’s six year old bones white cells had staked their flag they conquered the territory of her tiny body they saw it as their destiny they said it was manifested

It all

fell out III. I felt bald and blank as Bianca’s skull when they closed her casket hymns wafting into the night sky

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IV. Bianca loved to eat fish she ate it raw ate it fried ate it whole she ate it with its head slurping on the eyeball jelly leaving only tiny neat bones V. The marrow should have worked They said she had six months to live VI. That’s what the doctors told the fishermen over 50 years ago when they were out at sea just miles away from Bikini the day the sun exploded split open and rained ash on the fishermen’s clothes on that day those fishermen were quiet they were neat they dusted the ash out of their hair reeled in their fish and turned around their motorboat to speed home VII. There is an old Chamorro legend that the women of Guahan saved their island from a giant coral eating fish by hacking off their long and black as the night sky hair They wove their locks

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into a massive magical net They caught the monster fish and they saved their islands VIII. Thin rootless

fishbone hair

black night

sky

net

catch ash catch moon catch star for you Bianca for you

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Flying To Makiki Street Night lights peer into your oval window and you, cousin, are sobs buried beneath the cover of an itchy airplane blanket. Leavemealone! stings my palm from your shoulder. It evaporates slow into this arid cabin cradling us across the Pacific from the Marshall Islands to Hawai’i - your new home. My nine year old mind is desperate. It wonders if sticks of juicy fruit gum could chew away the raw ache in your heart. Or maybe while we peel open the wrapper of some ametama, wrap our teeth in sticky coconut rounds, we could find some way to peel apart the loss of your old home, your house by the reef. Do you mourn that reef? That leathered dark brown edge of Rita? Do you mourn the sun burning like coils on a rusted stove? Do you miss Rita’s tin roofs, its unpainted walls and the children who know the joy of rainstorms in heat? Do you miss your father, placid in his blank wooden chair, chanting family histories until the night turns deep? Cousin let’s stretch those nights to Makiki Street, with its pine trees bunkbed whispers and jawaiian music blaring beneath damp Hawaiian rainbows. How we will fade into homework, classes,

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schedules with tennis practice, band practice, ROTC, college prepatory and your McDonalds uniforms folded starched every night – always so neat. How our lives will be just like that: folded starched every bare night - so nice and neat. It won’t be so bad cousin. Trust me.

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On The Couch With Bubu Neien After six years of living in Hawai’i, I return to Majuro to find myself sitting on a couch with my grandmother, Bubu Neien sweating in jeans, my hands folded tight while questions nag the bones of my skull. My grandmother has tongue cancer. Crouched coughing, hacking fidgeting with her embroidered handkerchief, she is a paper doll, crumpled into a heap, shivering in the heat. Her dark bruised skin melts away from her face. Cancer rips words from the belly of her throat before they can be born before they can flutter in this space between us – an unturned layer of earth I can no longer cultivate I can’t speak Marshallese English syllables accent the walls of my voice, pronounces me Ashamed so I bury my native tongue beneath a borrowed one The silence roars between us like the steel fan spinning sunlight across her red linoleum floor and I wanna tell my grandmother that I wish our voices didn’t yearn for language, that her stories could be netted from the depth of her brown eyes,

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a water that runs deeper than the shallow rattle of her breath I wish I could ask Bubu if she remembers when pink was my favorite color when my light-up sneakers squeaked and ribbons on my tricycle streamed pink I wish I could ask if there was pink across the roof of the sun’s mouth yawning across her childhood home – Ailinlaplap its reef a curved smile to the sky. I wish I could ask about the ache of fingers caked hard, crooked from days of soap and iron washboards Bubu what was that like? And when it turned to night did voices scrape the tin roof of your dreams? The voices with names fading like stars into darkness, the warriors healers canoe carvers buried before you? And what of those who came after? Do you hear my father - your son, the thump of his chubby fists on plywood floors? And just how did those fists explode scattering the delicate glass of my mother’s face? So many questions to be asked answered made, but before my thoughts can implode Bubu Neien’s hand reaches over pats

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my knee She smiles lips stretched across crinkles She hands me a small bundle of embroidered handkerchiefs just the like the one she uses. She points to the blossoming stitches along the borders of the terry cloth and then she giggles (she did them herself) And suddenly sunlight floods my insides I gasp Wow Bubu! I say Thank you. Kommol! And she folds the softness of her palm over mine, rests her head against my shoulder with a sigh. Three months later, in the coolness of my dim Hawai’i room, I imagine the white floral print that must be dancing along her arms, I imagine the crinkle of the paper flowers and the bent knees, the fold of her palms on her still chest and the water of her brown eyes closed, finally.

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My Rosy Cousin

My cousin is bloody roses tatted / on her ankle / her knuckles white as rice / gripping the steering wheel / cruising thru manoa / sunglasses ignoring those redred lights My cousin is one cold pepsi one chocolate hershey bar / the daily ransom for driving me to school / lets make a quickstop / pitstop / 7eleven / gimme your money / you live with your parents / you don’t gotta pay rent My cousin is four a.m. taptaptaps on the window / slurred threats / Kcppevxke kcjsm eg/ kwonej loe / passed out on the front lawn /

mom’s pissed again / ritto bsta tossed between aunties lips /

when will she ever learn / coffee cups and morning gossip

My cousin is bullying / dede you’re so stupid / dede you’re so useless / other times she cuts/ straight thru bone / dede you’re as white / white / white as they come / i mean what other marshallese writes / poetry and plays piano My cousin goes to college / talks about classes with hawaiian teachers and tongan scholars / tells us tragic samoan love stories and funny fijian satires / doesn’t that sound just like home / doesn’t that sound just like majuro

My cousin asked me to write a poem / a poem about her / so i said that i would / so this is a poem/ about how i bloomed / inside her voice / inside her stories / this is also about how i was pruned / cut raw / dripping bloody / just like her ankle red roses

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Spoken Marshallese Lesson Nine: A Conversation Drill

You will often be questioned by other Marshallese, especially those born and raised in the islands, or in the outer islands. This is a good chance to practice the proper response (you will practice as B).

A: Kwojela ke egwcr? Do you know how to fish?

B: Ijaje. Kwomaron ke katakin ic? I don’t know how. Can you teach me?

A: Kwojela ke inog? Do you know how to tell Marshallese legends/stories?

B: Ijaje. Kwomaron ke katakin ic? I don’t know how. Can you teach me?

A: Kwojela ke kowainini? Do you know how to pick coconuts?

B: Ijaje. Kwomaron ke katakin ic? I don’t know how. Can you teach me?

A: Kwojela ke umum ms? Do you know how to cook breadfruit in the earth?

B. Ijaje. Kwomaron ke katakin ic? I don’t know how. Can you teach me?

A: Ijjab kanuij jells, ak inaj kajiog. I’m not an expert – but I can try.

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How to Interview a Marshallese Roro Expert

1. Bake a banana bread, warm and fresh. Wrap in foil.

2. Look over your translated questions – make sure they’re grammatically correct.

3. Get a taxi an hour ahead – there’s always lots of stops along the way for the

other passengers. Get a van – those are cheaper only 50 cents before the bridge

and a dollar after. Make sure the windows are closed – this means the ac is

working.

4. Arrive early.

5. Shake their hand, greet him/her good morning.

6. Explain your project in your broken Marshallese.

7. Apologize profusely for your broken Marshallese.

8. Explain why this project matters to you – how you crave connection to a deeper,

ancient past.

9. Take out the consent form, ask him/her to sign it.

10. Turn on the video recorder.

11. Listen.

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The Captain I interviewed Captain last for my research project From everything I had been told, I expected broad shoulders for hauling anchors a face weathered by salt sprays and a laugh that dared the ocean roar I had not expected the thin frame the shaky hands the face lined with cracks as brittle as dried out coral His world was the sky rocking up above while he lay back flat against a canoe the ocean nudging him urging him to listen Which way am I coming from? Which way would you like to go? His world was black magic words muttered that etched crevices into his body, left his skull numb, his face thawed and melting The language of the sea was a hard lesson and no one wanted to learn it anymore only the white man hunting for his piece of paper Maybe I’m being punished he tells me, all thick lips gaps and gums Maybe I should never have helped him

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Just A Rock

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my mother says go – look. It’s Lidepdepju

the legend, the goddess, the beautiful.

but all I see is a rock on the reef Campaigning In Aur

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I. After six hours on a ship, women spill from the fiberglass hands of bubbling speedboats, women in popsicle colored baseball caps and silk guams, faded muumuus, and flowered chuukese skirts, whooping, hollering, laughing in the Aur Atoll water. My mother is running for the Aur Atoll senator’s seat. Throughout all the elections, 32 senators elected were men Throughout all the elections, only 1 senator elected was a woman. My mother knows the stakes She knows the odds are slim So she disembarks on her motherland flanked by a campaign army of women. For many this is their first time back home after many years. For me and my cousin this is our first time ever. II. My mother informs us - the youngest of the crew - that this is no vacation cruise no jumbo we’re here to work. So we unroll the bags, help string up lights wake up at dawn and trudge door to door filming, snapping photographs, both of us hauling stacks of fliers listing my mother’s genealogy her work history and her campaign promises. We march beneath the shade of gnarled breadfruit trees thicker

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than any I’ve ever seen, dodge barking dogs with bared teeth, pass concrete shells of abandoned houses and curious children threading through grass as tall as our knees. As we march she stops to talk to a man who husks white flakes into a plastic orange basin, surrounded by an audience of bloated bags of coconuts, she talks to the woman who stitches spiderwebs of pandanus from rolls of sun-dried plaits stacked up around her. At night we help the other women fill plastic plates meant to persuade the bellies of ri-Aur seated, at the feet of my mother, her voice amplified III. This is my mother promising a change This is my aunty stirring a large pot of homemade stew This is my cousin promoting WUTMI – her NGO for women This is another aunty discussing lowering diabetes This is another aunty stringing a lei of flowers This is another cousin strumming an ukulele and singing This is a grandma telling us stories of what Aur used to be This is the mother of all mothers standing in the oceanside watching IV. And this is my cousin and I running away into tangled leaves climbing moss and whispering bushes where we splash into water clear as a mirror, the sky - a giant empty canvas We emerge hair still wet

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as we stroll beneath a warm rain that drizzles on our face Aunties we’ve just met call us in to their smoky cook houses where fresh tonaj, hot and soft melt in our mouths as we fall asleep on a sun worn jaki we fall asleep as girls listening to the women the women the women talkingwhisperinglaughing the women we hope to one day be

Saltwater Lavender Waves of

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contractions crash into me crack me open split down the middle Do not measure the breaths the minutes the hours of clenched fists curled toes eyes pinched shut tight closed Just inhale the saving Grace of hot towels dipped in sweet lavender Dream of saltwater orange fruit and sunsets uncle clyde aunty kaka mom hetine tamera baby dukie all of us that one picnic afternoon that ordinary sunday wish she could see it someday and when she is pulled from my body an army of white coats shout an order: OPEN YOUR EYES And there she is.

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